


Short Drabbles from Tumblr

by jettiebettie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Each individual chapter will contain its own warnings, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:56:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 40
Words: 22,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1227184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jettiebettie/pseuds/jettiebettie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of prompt fics containing a grab-bag of genres, ranging from the fucked up to the cute. Each chapter will contain its own individual warnings, should you wish to skip certain ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Try and Try Again

**Author's Note:**

> Rated: T  
> Warnings: Dark!Stiles, set immediately after episode 3.16 (Illuminated)  
> Prompt: Running with the idea that Stiles himself was behind a lot of what happened, rather than being controlled.

The chalk falls to the ground and breaks at his feet. The key is hot in his other hand-

- _the key he took last night before rigging Coach’s office, the key he used to unlock the supply closet, the key he used to help Barrow hide in the one place_ he knew _the wolves couldn’t find him_ -

-so hot that it stings. He lets all of them drop and clatter to the ground as he feels his legs begin to give way. He stumbles back into desks, as if putting distance between himself and the board could make it any less true.

“ _Someone left a coded message on the blackboard telling him to kill Kira.”_

His own handwriting stares him in the face, incrimination in every line, every number a sign of _guilt_.

Guilty.

Guitly?

No, no this isn’t him. It’s that damn tree! It’s the darkness in his mind and around his heart! He wouldn’t do this- he has no memory of doing this!

Except that isn’t true, is it?

_He watches Scott watch her and something in him knows. It’s a feeling he can’t describe that floods his heart and makes him want to pull Scott away, drag him from the new girl as fast as he can. But it’s a feeling that doesn’t make sense, not really, so instead he tells Scott to go for it. He pushes down that negative pulse and forces himself to be a bro about it._

_There’s nothing wrong with the new girl._

_Except, lately, there’s always something wrong with the new ones. There’s always some ulterior motive, always some wicked plan to get to Scott or to use him. People always end up dead. Like Heather and Emily. Like Tara and all of the people he knew from the station. How many more?_

_How many more now because this…_ some _thing is now in their town?_

He shakes his head, bringing his hands up around his ears as he rocks and shutters and thinks no, no, no! He couldn’t have known about her. He shouldn’t have known about Barrow-

Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t? That’s right. He _did_ know.

_His dad is so keyed up, he doesn’t notice his son listening in. William Barrow, convicted murderer, to be transported to the hospital where Melissa works under heavy guard. His dad shifts on his feet nervously during the phone call, eventually resorting to pacing as he asks the person on the other end to repeat what was just said._

“ _Glowing eyes? He says those kids had glowing eyes?”_

His breath is coming in quick pants and his head feels light.

Because he did it. He hid Barrow. He sent him after Kira. He did it, he did it all-

For Scott.

His breath catches as the thought solidifies in his mind.

For Scott. Because Scott is his friend. Because Kira will have brought something with her, it’s inevitable. And Barrow? If they had stayed out of his way, he would have killed Kira. And then the police would have apprehended him again afterward. He would be in some prison for the criminally insane for life, far away from Beacon Hills’ resident kids with glowing eyes. Two birds with one stone.

Just like he’d planned.

Because he did. He planned it. Late at night while trying not to fall asleep and into nightmares. And it was good. It was a good plan. He stares up at the blackboard and can’t help but feel a certain amount of… pride. If only he hadn’t remembered at that pivotal moment. If only he hadn’t figured it out all over again and told Scott. If only…

Well, he finds himself thinking. No use crying over something that’s already happened.

He’ll just have to try again.


	2. In Loving Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: Stilinski Family Feels  
> Prompt: Stiles doesn't remember a time when his mother wasn't sick.

His dad talks about her sometimes. It’s rare, though; this is how they’ve both chosen to move on, to just simply let her passing fade away quietly and continue as best they can.

But sometimes his dad drinks before bed and tells him of her, of the woman she used to be, with a small, sad smile. And he’ll ask, in his more vulnerable moments, if Stiles remembers her like that too. He tells his dad that he does.

But it’s a lie.

Maybe she had been the woman his dad talks about when he was much younger, too young to remember a hand that didn’t shake and eyes that held familiarity. Maybe she did wake up in the morning and remember that he was there, or made dinner for more than two.

But if he can’t even remember a time like that, why should he hold her forgetfulness against her?

He knows his mom loved him, because in her moments of clarity she would hold him close and sing to him softly and call him her perfect gift. And he knows she was kind, because even when she didn’t recognize him, she always smiled nicely to him and spoke with the fondness of an adult amusing a lost child.

But she also scared him sometimes.

She scared him in how empty she looked some days, standing in the middle of a room and staring at nothing. In the terrified, whispered words she would say to people not there. In the way she would scream at night, begging his dad to find her, to help her, _please please_ help her.

But he likes the stories his dad tells, and looking at pictures from a long time ago where she’s smiling and laughing. He likes imagining her whole.

So he tells his dad what they both want to hear, because it’s the only convincing lie he’s ever told.


	3. Pre-Date Annoyance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: none  
> Prompt: Scott and Isaac giving Stiles a pep talk before Stiles's first date with Derek.

"Do you have one of these in every color?" Isaac asks, holding up one of Stiles’ plaid overshirts. Stiles yanks it out of his grip, glaring at him until Isaac holds up his hands. "I’m just saying. I don’t think you have any right to mock my scarves."

"Thank you for continuing your track record of being useless," Stiles says, walking back to the closet to toss the shirt in. His wardrobe is a damn mess, shirts being taken off hangers, eventually being judged as a no, and left pathetically on the floor. Stiles vigorously runs frustrated hands through his hair and tries not to panic. "It’s already 7:30!"

"Dude, calm down," Scott says, picking out another shirt. All of Stiles’ graphic tees have been ruled out, and that doesn’t leave them with much. "Hey, Isaac, you lived with Derek for a while. Any idea what he likes?"

"Oh, you know," Isaac says, leaning against the bed. "Evil and crazy. So you should really relax, you’re just his type," he says to Stiles. Scott has to pull on the back of Stiles’ shirt to keep him from grabbing his bat.

"Hey! Here we go!" Scott says, pulling out a long gray shirt. Stiles eyes it warily.

"Scott, that’s something I wear around the house or to the store."

"Yeah, but the last time we went on a snack run, the girl at the check out said it made your arms look awesome," Scott says, passing the shirt to Stiles.

"What?" Stiles asks, taking off his current shirt. "Why didn’t you tell me? I would have started wearing this every day!"

"That’s probably the reason," Isaac says. Stiles is too busy changing to do anything but give him the finger. He pulls the shirt down and over his ass, rolling the sleeves to his elbows. While loose around his hips, the material stretches a bit across his chest and his biceps. He turns in front of them, letting them see it from all sides.

"Good?" he asks. Scott gives him a smile and a thumbs up while Isaac tilts his head and nods.

"Not bad," he says, pushing off of the bed. Stiles instinctively backs up when he gets closer and flinches when he reaches for his hair. Isaac isn’t deterred though, rubbing his fingers through Stiles’ hair, messing with a few more strands left and right before pulling back.

"Dude, nice sex hair," Scott says. Stiles turns angrily to Isaac. "No no! It works! You look good! Here." Scott digs into his pocket and pulls out a nickel. "This is my lucky nickel. I had it with me the first time I made love to Allison." He pulls the coin away when Isaac subtly tries to reach for it.

"I don’t want your sex nickel, Scott," Stiles says with an exaggerated frown.

"Do you want to have sex with Derek?" Scott asks. Stiles remains still for all of five seconds before he reluctantly holds out his hand for Scott’s stupid slutty nickel. He shoves it into his pocket almost violently as he walks over to pick up his keys.

"Have a good time!"

Stiles flips them both off as he leaves his bedroom, his face a bright red.


	4. Lycanthropy: The Game (or How Stiles Ruined the Campaign and Everyone Went Home Pissed)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warning: D&D doucebaggery  
> Prompt: AU where everyone is just normal people playing a very elaborate and strange Role Playing/ LARP game. And Stiles is being a real tool lately.

"Fuck yeah!"

“ _What_? Stiles, did you just knock out The Vet?” Scott stares down at the board in shocked confusion.

"I knocked out The Vet. I knocked out Kira. And I left your ass bleeding out on the floor!" Stiles boasts.

 

"Dude, what hell? What are you doing?" Scott asks in outrage.

"Chaotic Evil every few turns, Scotty. I gotta do what I gotta do."

Scott looks to Deaton for help, but the man shrugs, side eying Stiles as he dances in his chair.

"You and Kira are incapacitated for one turn," he sighs. Kira slumps in her chair and frowns. Scott turns to stare helplessly at Stiles. "Stiles," Deaton says. "What do you want to do now?"

"Whoa whoa! Why does he get to go again?" Isaac asks incredulously.

"Because you’ve been unconscious for four turns, Allison and Lydia are traveling, Scott and Kira are also unconscious, and Chris and Derek are detained for at least two more turns," Deaton says, mouth set in a grim line. Everyone glares at the board or Stiles as he does The Running Man in place.

"What are my movement options?" Stiles asks mid-dance. Irritably, Deaton looks over his notes.

"The school, the hospital, or the station."

"Hospital it is!"

"You’ll have to roll at least a 15 to use the Nogitsune’s Accelerated Movement," Deaton tells him. He cringes when Stiles rolled an 18. "You saunter up to the ER entrance. There is still quite a bit of commotion in the area after the incident with the live wire-"

Everyone glares at Stiles simultaneously.

"-but it’s enough to distract them from you. Well, what do you want to do?" Deaton asks.

"I want to set it on fire."

“ _What_?”

"You can’t _do_ that!”

"Deaton, man, make him stop!"

"Hold on, hold on!" Deaton says, holding up a hand. "There are too many technicians and officers in the area. There’s no way you’d be able to do that without getting caught," Deaton tells Stiles. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Stiles leans back and takes a moment to think. 

"Okay… Then just Isaac. I wanna kill Isaac."

"Oh fuck you!"

"How do you want to kill Isaac?" Deaton asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I collected the Wolf Lichen from The Vet, yeah? I use that."

"This is bullshit!" Isaac shouts. "You’ve had it out for me this whole campaign!"

"Chaotic Evil," Stiles says in a sing-song voice. Isaac turns to Deaton.

"Is this really going to kill me?" he asks. Deaton drops his hand from his face and sighs again.

"You only have a quarter of your HP left. If you roll above a 20, you’ll just be poisoned and take 2 Damage every turn. If you don’t, you will die."

"Give me the fucking dice!" Isaac says through his teeth. Allison hands him the dice and he angrily rolls.

11.

“ _Goddamnit_!”

Isaac stands up so quickly that his chair falls over as he grips the edge of the table and flips it violently. No one moves as pieces go flying, instead staring forlornly at where the table used to be. Stiles stands up, his hands held above his head in victory.

"Fucking succeed!"

"Screw you, Stilinski! I’m done with this shitty game. I’m gonna go play Call of Duty," Isaac says as he kicks the upside-down table.

"Give Erica and Boyd my love!" Stiles says after him. Derek glares at him.

"You’re a dick."

"Chaotic Evil~"


	5. Valentine's Day Fic #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: Teeth rotting cuteness  
> Prompt: Scott and Kira giving each other valentines day cards.

He’s nervous. Stupidly nervous. If his hands sweat any more than they have already, the card in he’s holding won’t be worth giving.

"What did I say to you before, Scott?" Stiles had asked him earlier. "You’re the hot girl. You can totally do this." It’s a mantra that Scott has been trying to keep in his head for the past half hour as he waits by the lockers.

_He’s the hot girl. He’s the hot girl. He’s the hot girl._

And just as he’s beginning to feel a little less sick to his stomach, Kira walks through the main doors, bottom lip between her teeth as she digs through her bag for something.

Oh no, he thinks. _She’s_ the hot girl.

He makes a move to abort the mission as his nerves get the better of him, but as he turns he’s stopped by Stiles who is further down the hall. He points to Scott with one hand, dragging his other across his throat. Right. Right, it’s do or die. All or nothing. Go big or go home!

He really doesn’t mean to crash into Kira when he turns around. They both lose the contents of their hands, his card getting lost underneath the spillage of her bag.

"I’m so sorry!" Scott says, quickly bending down to pick up her things. He hears Stiles yards away voice his disbelief in one exasperated "Oh my _god_.”

"I-it’s fine!" Kira says, joining him down on the floor, frantically trying to get the various contents of her bag shoveled back in. When their hands both land on a small heart shaped box, they pause and glance up before looking away. Scott picks up the box and Kira grabs his card. When they straighten back up, she hands the envelope to him with a shy smile. "You dropped this," she says.

"Oh, uh- That’s okay. It’s for you anyway," he says. Kira’s cheeks turn red with the cutest blush when she draws the envelope back in.

"Really?" she asks. Scott nods with a smile, absently drumming his fingers against the box before realizing he still has it.

"Here! Sorry," he says, handing it back. Kira hides her face behind the envelope and mutters something Scott can’t quite catch even with his better hearing. "Sorry, what?" Kira peeks over the card.

"That’s yours," she says. Scott’s smile widens.

"You got me chocolates?"

"Is that okay? I didn’t know if you liked chocolate or not and- oh my gosh, can you not eat them? Is it like a dog thing? Not that you’re a dog! Oh my god, I’m shutting up." Kira presses her face harder into the card as her shoulders drop.

"I love chocolate," Scott says, pulling Kira’s hands down gently. "Like a lot. I might even end up eating this whole box if no one stops me." Kira gives him another small smile and he has to ask. "Want to share them?" Kira nods enthusiastically.

"Sure!"


	6. Valentine's Day Fic #2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Pack Feels  
> Prompt: The pack (the entire weird pack - Stiles, Scott, Allison, Lydia, Isaac…) giving Derek flowers or chocolates for Valentine’s Day. No romance, just friendship.

There’s something underneath one of the windshield wipers of his Toyota and if it’s another flyer for the new restaurant on 4th, he’s going to have to hurt someone. Irritably, Derek shoves his keys into his pocket and grabs it.

“ _Roses are red_  
 _Violets are blue_  
 _Your face needs a smile_  
 _And a shave or two_ ”

Derek stares confused at the crayon poem on the paper, one decorated with poorly drawn wolves and what he thinks is supposed to be a representation of himself, only clean shaven. Absently, he rubs at the thick stubble on his chin and looks around the empty parking lot. He sees no one but brings the paper a little closer to his face. One whiff confirms his suspicions.

"Stiles…"

Damn brat.

He goes about the rest of his morning as he intended, stopping by the bank, picking up his dry cleaning, and heading to the supermarket. He doesn’t expect to run into Scott and Isaac, who are standing near the entrance with two different small bouquets.

"You told me her favorite flowers were daisies," Isaac huffs.

"My mom’s favorite flowers are daisies. Allison’s favorite are peach roses," Scott says shaking his head. "And at least you can go buy another one. I’m stuck having to guess which Kira likes." He pouts down at his collection of sick looking lilies. Derek really wants to point them in the direction of an actual florist, rather than the discount flowers at a grocery store. He pushes his cart over to them, intending on doing just that when they finally notice him. Scott smiles and waves. "Hey, Derek. Happy Valentine’s Day."

Oh, Derek thinks. Well that explains Stiles’ stupid little poem… hardly at all.

"April Showers," he says in place of a greeting. Isaac and Scott look confused.

"It’s February," Isaac tells him. Derek rolls his eyes.

"It’s a place behind the barber’s on Main. They sell flowers. Actual flowers," he says, giving their meager bouquets a pointed look.

"Oh, that’s awesome! Thanks, Derek!" Scott says, shoving his flowers at him. Derek blinks down at them. "Here, you can have these. We’ll see if that place has anything better. Take it easy!" Isaac follows Scott out after slipping his own bouquet into Derek’s cart.

What the hell is he supposed to do with these?

He’s got no one to give them to, not that he would considering the quality of them, but it’d be such a waste to just throw them away. Sighing, he adds a set of vases to his list along with liquid fertilizer, because why not? His loft could use a little life.

Scrubbing at his chin again, he underlines razors.

He has his arms full of groceries and flowers by the time he makes it back to his place, and when he sees that the door has been slid open a bit, Derek heaves a sigh. Setting his shopping down near the door, he cautiously pushes it open wider, peering in. he immediately pushes it all the way open, startling Allison and Lydia who are huddled around his coffee table.

"No, please, make yourselves at home," he deadpans. That’s it. He’s changing the locks.

"We brought you treats, so be nice," Lydia says, flipping her hair and turning back to the coffee table. Curious, Derek walks over to look around their shoulders. They’re arranging a cookie tray into the shape of a triskele.

"Is that macadamia nut?" he asks.

"Some of them," Allison says as she sweeps some crumbs away. "We made too many for the class, and if we left it to the boys, they’d eat them until they made themselves sick. We thought you’d might like them."

"Assuming you don’t eat them all in one sitting. Do you even have a refrigerator?" Lydia asks as she finishes her design.

"Yes," is all Derek says about it. He walks back outside to pick up his groceries and, as he passes the coffee table to the staircase, he swipes a cookie before Lydia can stop him.

"Hey! I didn’t even get to take a picture of it!"

"These are good," he tells her around a mouth full of cookie. He hears Allison laugh when Lydia stomps her foot, probably with her hands on her hips, as he heads upstairs to shave.


	7. Valentine's Day Fic #3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: My weakass skittles game  
> Prompt: Stiles and Scott and cinnamon hearts

"Dude, are those cinnamon hearts?"

Scott barely has time to shove the bag under his jacket before Stiles grabs him in a headlock. They grapple a bit, Scott sticking to defense rather than offense. Once he breaks free, he does his best to evade Stiles’ desperate attempts to get a hold of his jacket.

"They’re mine!" Scott shouts, dodging Stiles’ lunge toward him.

"Come on, man, share the love! I just want a handful!" Stiles says, blocking Scott around the couch.

"Have you seen your hands? That’s, like, half the bag!" Scott says, clutching his cinnamon hearts closer. Stiles feints to the left, trying to trick Scott into going right, but Scott doesn’t fall for it as he runs around the couch. Except he does fall for it, since Stiles loves himself some reverse psychology. He tackles Scott around the waist, sending them both to the floor. Stiles straddles him and pull at his jacket.

"Give me the bag!"

"It’s all mine! Go buy your own!"

"Just give it to me, Scott!"

“ _Whoa-!_ ”

Scott and Stiles pause in their struggle, Stiles’ hands forcing Scott’s jacket open and Scott in the middle of trying to buck Stiles off. Isaac stands in the open doorway of the house, panic written all over his face.

"It’s exactly what it looks like," Stiles says, because he seems to get a sick kind of pleasure out of messing with Isaac.

"Should-should I go?" Isaac asks, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. Scott pulls the bag of cinnamon hearts out of his jacket and holds them up. Isaac visibly relaxes and shuts the door behind him. "Oh thank god."

And then Stiles swipes the bag out of Scott’s hands, making a break for the door.

"Isaac! Grab him!"


	8. Hush (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Blood, mutilation, nogitsune  
> Prompt: Stiles getting his mouth sewn shut.

He doesn’t know where he is. There’s cold white tile underneath his bare back stretching as far as he can see and bright, blinding light above him. He can’t move. His limbs feel heavy and numb, the sensation alone is enough to stir a panic in his heart, makes it hard to breathe.

He doesn’t think he’s alone.

Somewhere, beyond the light and in the darkness, something is pacing around him in slow, angry circles. He hears it every so often, the harsh shift of clothing, the firm placement of feet. He wants to call out, to scream at whoever it is. He wants them to go away or come closer; he can’t decide and it keeps his voice in his throat.

"You’re so quiet, now," he hears. "How long will it last this time?"

Stiles’ breaths become frantic, too quickly coming in and exiting his lungs that it leaves him feeling lightheaded and afraid. He tries to move again, to get his deadened arms and legs to move _just move damnit please_! He flinches when a body comes closer, breaks the light and stands above him.

His own face stares down at him.

"That was very rude of you," his shadow says, bending down to straddle his naked torso. "Who told you that you could come out, hmm?" It reaches out a hand to run a thumb along his lips. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, tears finally slipping free and falling toward his ears. "What did you tell them, Stiles?" it asks.

Stiles throws his head side to side.

"You were so chatty before, Stiles. What happened? You’ll talk to your friends, but you won’t talk to us?" It forces two of its fingers into his mouth, far enough to make him choke. "Tell us what you said, Stiles!" Stiles bites down on the fingers between his teeth, but his shadow doesn’t flinch, even as Stiles tastes blood on his tongue. Repulsed, he lets go, throws his head to the side once again in order to get the fingers out of his mouth.

He can’t stop crying now.

"We didn’t want to do this, Stiles," it says above him, dragging its spit and blood coated fingers down his chin. "Why didn’t you just stay quiet for us?"

Suddenly he can’t move his head anymore.

Not when his shadow shows him the needle. Not when it forces the point through his bottom lip. Not when blood fills his mouth again as flesh is sewn together with thread. All he can do his sob, his screams becoming muffled as his mouth is pulled shut. Every reflexive shout of pain causes his jaw to move and the thread to tug at the holes across his lips.

By the time his shadow is finished, snipping the ends of the thread, and pulling back a bit, his crying is nothing more than hysteric hiccups as his entire body shakes and blood runs down to the floor beneath him. His shadow hushes him softly, petting his hair, and running a thumb gently over his swollen lips one more time.

"We will do the talking from now on, Stiles."


	9. Specimen 047 (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: creeper behavior, stockholm syndrome, torture  
> Prompt: Creepy Scientist Stiles has a crush on his werewolf test subject Derek.

They used to have issues with this one. Hale, Derek [specimen 047] was certainly their most resilient test subject to date, but he also had the disadvantage of being the most violent.

At first anyway.

That’s in the past now, that was months ago. When Stiles walks into the private testing area, 047 no longer glares death onto him or fights his bonds or snarls at him. Instead, the specimen lifts his head expectantly, straightening slightly in the chair that keeps him retrained.

"Good morning, Derek," Stiles says, walking over to him. He pulls a hand out of his lab coat and holds it out, waiting for 047 to close his eyes and lean forward. Smiling, Stiles begins to run his fingers through 047’s hair. The specimen leans into it, contentment evident on his brow. "Let’s check your teeth."

Stiles reaches around and unbelts the muzzle around 047’s lower face, letting the leather and metal fall away. There are red lines from the restraint pressed into his skin, visible under the stubble. He’ll have to be groomed again soon. Stiles takes out a pen from the pocket on the breast of his coat and presses it to 047’s lips.

"Open up for me, Derek," he says.

Obediently, 047 does and Stiles lets the pen catch behind the elongated fangs, pulling up to force the specimen’s mouth to open wider. Checking the teeth had become a mandatory pre-routine ever since the incident with 024. As Stiles checks for chipping or broken enamel, 047 moves his tongue, letting it wrap around the pen pressed against his teeth.

"Ah, ah," Stiles says. "Work before play." The specimen’s shoulders visibly sag, but the tongue slips away from the pen and stills nonetheless. "Good boy." 047 shivers. Stiles takes the pen out of 047’s mouth, wipes it against his coat quickly, and jots down a few notes on his clipboard.

He turns to the materials that have been laid out for him for today’s experiment. Eying the needle and the chart, he has to say he’s a little displeased. Wednesdays are supposed to be their strength testing days. And if there’s one thing his favorite specimen loves, it’s being able to show him how fit he’s remained even after months of captivity. But orders are orders, and science waits for no one.

"There’s been a change of plans today, Derek," he tells 047 as he sanitizes his hands and reaches for the pre-filled needle. As soon as 047 catches sight of the ominous purple liquid in the body of it, he flinches and presses into the back of the chair. "Hey, now," Stiles says with reprimand in his voice. "None of that." 047 looks ashamed before uncurling himself.

Stiles walks up and places a hand on the specimen’s cheek. 047 sighs contentedly, turning his face into the palm of Stiles’ hand. Stiles lets his thumb drag against the grain of his stubble, allowing 047 to take said thumb playfully between his teeth. He works his thumb against the tongue caressing it before pulling it away.

"Be good for me, and I’ll make it up to you later," Stiles whispers as he brings the needle to the specimen’s arm. "All you have to do is survive."


	10. Specimen 047 pt 2 (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: stockholm syndrome, emotional manipulation  
> Prompt: Continuation of Scientist Stiles and test subject Derek.

The hallway is in chaos. People are running every which way as alarms ring out all over the compound. Stiles tries to remain calm as he walks toward the holding cells.

A specimen has escaped.

He uses the blind panic of his fellow scientists in order to blend in with them, managing to avoid the eyes of Argent’s soldiers as he types in his code and breaks away into the quieter area of the other specimens’ holdings. He shuts the door firmly and stares at it in anger.

He’d been careless. Lydia said he was getting a habit of being too friendly with the specimens. McCall, Scott. Subject 050. He was a recent addition to their testing pool, newly turned and perfect for comparison experiments with their specimens born with the condition.

He was about Stiles’ age, easy to talk to, if a little rebellious here and there, and very hardy. His test results have put him up close to 047 in quiet a few fields. He was impressive. And manipulative. Stiles really should have known better than to get chummy with a specimen. 

Angrily, he pushes off the door and heads down the hall. Many testing subjects slink further back into their cells as he passes, afraid that they’ll be pulled for more experiments than what they are already put through in a day. Only one approaches the bars of his cell.

"Derek," Stiles says as he faces him. 047 presses himself close to the bars and stretches a hand out. Stiles allows him to grab his hand, pulling him closer to the cell. "Derek, can you hear what’s happening outside?" he asks. 047 tilts his head, focusing his hearing, and he nods. "Another specimen has breached security and is now running for the mountains. And it’s my fault."

047’s brow forwards in confusion.

"I made a mistake, Derek. And if he isn’t captured, I’m going to be in a lot of trouble." Stiles steps even closer. "I need you to bring him back for me." 047’s face goes through a a number of emotions; shock, confusion, and finally settling on hesitance.

No. That’s not good enough.

"Derek," Stiles says, hands coming up to the bars. "If he makes it past the mountains, that’s it. I won’t be lead tester anymore. You would never see me again."

That does it.

047 drops to his knees, a pathetic whine at the back of his throat and he reaches through the bars and wraps his arms around Stiles waist. Stiles has no doubt that if they were not separated the way they were, 047 would be pinning him against something, refusing to let him go. He runs a steady hand through 047’s hair.

"050 has to be brought back, Derek. I need you to do this for me. I don’t want to lose you, okay?"

047 looks up at him, standing with determination as his eyes flash a cold blue. Stiles smiles.

"You’re such a good boy for me, Derek," he says, unlocking the cell and letting 047 hold his tightly for a moment. "Bring him back alive, and you’ll make me very, _very_ happy,” he whispers into the specimen’s ear.

047 growls low in the back of his throat and Stiles knows that 050 won’t be getting far.


	11. Eyes (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: blood, mutilation, madness  
> Prompt: Stiles + possession/dementia + eye motif

How does he get them to see what he sees?

How does he get them to stop looking at him like that? Eyes wide, concerned, afraid. Stop, he thinks. _Just stop and look!_

He’s told them again and again and again and-

They slip into their eyes and they never leave. Scott, Lydia, his dad. He sees them there, just behind the eyes of the ones he loves, sitting back in their skulls and laughing at him. How do they not see them? Every time they look into a mirror or at each other, how do they not see the broken lips stretched across crooked teeth in their eyes?

He wants them out.

He wants his father back. He wants all of his looks, even the ones that mean the man is disappointed in him, even the rare ones that mean he’s seeing Stiles’ mom in him. As painful as those are, they’re better than taunting faces he sees in his father’s eyes now.

He can’t look at Scott anymore, can’t stand to see the drooling, rabid wolf pacing behind brown irises. He doesn’t want to see the contrast of Scott’s fear to the scavenging monster that’s taken residence inside. No matter how many times Scott tells him he’s fine, that it’s Stiles who is seeing things, Stiles who is breaking apart from the inside out-

_Stiles, please wake up! Please stop this!_

Even when he finally works up his courage and pins Lydia to the floor, cringes at her screaming as he takes a knife to her eyes, he refuses to look for too long, his lessened accuracy sometimes causing him to cut her face instead. He apologizes over and over again, tells her he has to, he has to get them out, he has to fix her. Blood runs from his ears and down his neck, eardrums ruptured and sounds fading and ringing piercing his skull, but he doesn’t stop. Not until he’s pulled them out.

Not until he saves her, like he’s already saved Scott and his dad.


	12. You're Smooth When You're Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: underaged drinking  
> Prompt: Sterek with a tipsy Stiles

Whoever decided to first mix an energy drink with alcohol was crazy.

Crazy _brilliant_ that is.

He’s pretty sure his heart is about to explode, but he’s too buzzed to even care right now. There are people dancing and jumping and falling into him left and right and it’s fucking amazing. He’s pretty sure busting out his killer dance moves will cause him to fall on his ass, so he just lets himself be taken by the chaotic flow of the dance floor, swaying and jumping with everyone in time. He may have come to this gig stag, but right now the entire floor is dancing with him and it’s enough.

At least until his body begins to overheat. Too much booze and too much taurine and too many sweaty bodies.

He stumbles this way and that, unintentionally going against the tide of people and being knocked around as a result. A path off of the floor opens and closes with each new beat and it’s making him dizzy. He wonders if it would be even feasible right now to look or call out for Scott to be a bro and carry him princess style to the bar for another drink. 

And then a hand grabs his wrist and pulls and suddenly he’s falling face first into a fucking _wall_. A wall that feels suspiciously muscly under his hands and yep, he thinks as his fingers dig into a pec, that’s a chest. Straightening up, he meets Derek’s bemused glare head on.

"Don’t punch me," Stiles slurs out. "I didn’t mean to feel you up." Yeah, because it was an accident. Right? Right. What was he doing again?

"You need to go sit down," Derek says over the pounding music. "Your heart rate is-" He stops mid-sentence to look down at Stiles hand, which has repositioned itself on his pectoral muscle. Sighing, he takes Stiles wrist in hand and pulls it away. Stiles blinks up at him innocently as he sways precariously on his feet. "You know what? I’m taking you home." 

"Wow, that’s really forward. What kind of boy do you think I am?" Stiles asks. Derek is confused for all of two seconds before his ears turn red. He opens his mouth to say something, but Stiles beats him to it. "Who am I kidding? We both know I’m that kind of boy! Lets go, fuzz butt, this place is too loud for you to get naked."

"… That doesn’t even make sense."

But Derek lets Stiles pull him toward the exit anyway.


	13. Foxtrot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: (none)  
> Prompt: They destroy nogitsune!Stiles, but before it dies, turns Stiles into a baby fox and the pack (including Derek) has to take care of him while they find a way to turn Stiles human again.

"Oh no," Lydia says. She looks down at the ball of orange fur as if it had somehow personally offended her in some way. Bending down, she picks it up and holds it close to herself with a frown. "He’s so cute," she says angrily.

Scott’s pretty sure that if Stiles was himself, he’d be in heaven over being that close to Lydia’s chest. As it is, the tiny fox in her arms just yawns, his tongue curling before he buries his little nose in the crook of her arm. Lydia makes another angry noise in her throat as she strokes his tail.

"Somebody take him away from me before I smother him," she says between her teeth. Scott opens his arms, but surprisingly Derek is the one that steps forward. His hands are much bigger than Lydia’s, one palm almost engulfing the fox’s head as he pulls it toward his chest. It’s surreal how gentle he is with Stiles, letting him reposition himself in the new set of arms.

"His dad’s gonna freak," Scott says. He doesn’t know why that’s the first thing that seems important to say. He’s pretty sure he’s just happy that Stiles is alive and whole, no matter what form he’s in. He turns to Deaton who is examining the remains of the nogitsune, now ashes that are strewn out on the floor. The man looks up and casts the fox a calculating look. 

"I think I know what this is," he says, and Scott can hear Stiles’ voice in his head saying, _Well this is a first!_ “Give me a few hours to see what I can find. I don’t think this is a permanent change,” Deaton says as he stand and walks over to Derek. “I can keep him at the clinic until you decide what to tell the Sheriff.” When Deaton goes to take Stiles from Derek, Derek takes a step back.

"The loft is fine," he says. He subtly tries to bring his jacket closer around Stiles small orange body. "His dad will probably want to take him home soon anyway. He might take offense to his son being in a cage." Deaton opens his mouth, probably to contest the cage part, but Scott steps forward. 

"You know what, that’s a great idea!" he says. Everyone looks at him. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll go talk to the Sheriff and we’ll swing by later, okay?" He turns to Deaton. "You probably don’t need any distractions if we want to get him back to normal as soon as possible."

It seems to be a good enough compromise. Deaton smiles proudly at him and nods, leaving so start work immediately on reversing whatever this is. Lydia is still petting Stiles’ tail that’s hanging over Derek’s arm with a frown, like she can’t help herself. Scott walks over and peeks around the fold of Derek’s jacket to catch a look at his friend’s black and orange head.

"Don’t worry, buddy, we’re gonna get you fixed up in no time, I promise." He even reaches out to scratch along his back. Stiles pulls his head out of Derek’s arm to crane his neck back and look at Scott. He gives him a happy yowling bark, and Scott is pretty sure that means _Thanks, best friend!_

Or maybe _Do that again._ He’s not sure.


	14. That Which Haunts Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Stilinski Family Feels, PTSD symptoms  
> Prompt: Stiles having a terrible nightmare about his mom (ptsd effects are a plus: bedwetting, crying, panic attacks) and his dad comforting him.

Stiles sits with his back against the washing machine and tries to stop crying. His sheets and sleep pants slosh around in the soapy water and the sound covers up the quiet padding of his dad’s bare feet.

"Stiles? It’s one in the morning."

His dad scrubs the sleep out of his eyes, letting them adjust to the brightness of the laundry room before he gets a good look at his son sitting on the ground, knees pulled up and arms wrapped tightly around. Stepping forward quickly, the man bends down and wraps his hands around Stiles’ arms.

"Son, what happened?" he asks, voice filled with worry. Stiles sniffs wetly, bringing a hand up to wipe his face.

"N-nothing," he hiccups. "It’s was just another nightmare." His dad rubs his hands up Stiles’ arms soothingly, glancing toward the washing machine.

"Then what are you doing in-"

A new sob chokes Stiles, cutting his dad off as he hangs his head in shame. His dad understands, moving so that he too is positioned with his back against the machine. He wraps an arm tightly around Stiles, brings his son close to his chest.

"Hey, it’s okay," he says gently into Stiles’ hair. Stiles curls into him further, unable to stop crying at this point. It’s a little awkward at first; Stiles isn’t nine years old anymore. But the Sheriff takes it in stride, holding his son as best he can, rubbing calming circles into his back.

"I don’t want to be like her," Stiles manages to say between sobs. His dad knows what he means, ends up holding him a little tighter.

They stay like that for a long time, even after the machine buzzes.


	15. Nine Innings and Bribery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: (none)  
> Prompt: Stilinskis and Baseball

Stiles adjusts his sunglasses because no way did he see what he just saw. No way that actually just happened. He runs out of the stands and down to the player benches, waving his arms to get the umpire’s attention.

"Hey! Hey, timeout!"

The ump looks at him like he’s crazy, but Stiles just makes a T frantically with his hands until the man gives in and looks toward the mound.

"Stilinski! Your kid wants something!"

Stiles’ dad whips off his cap, wiping the sweat off of his brow as he jogs toward the benches.

"Stiles, you can’t pause a game-"

"Did you seriously just make a guy walk?" Stiles asks incredulously. His dad sighs, eyes squinting into the sun as he looks toward first base. 

"I’m a little off today," the man admits. Stiles flails his hands.

"Dad, we’ve never lost to the Fire Department before! I’ve already made my victory banners. _Crash and Burn, No Stop-Drop-And-Roll_? Any of this sound familiar?” he asks.

"I do seem to remember an unholy amount of glitter still scattered all over my dining room," his dad says testily.

"I will clean it up! I will clean the whole damn _station_ , if you would please, _please_ not lose us this game!” Stiles swears. His dad’s eyebrows shoot up, even as the ump impatiently taps his watch.

"The whole station?" he asks.

"Yes!"

"Even the kennels?"

"Yes- wait… _Ugh_ , yes, fine. Kennels too. But only if you stop embarrassing me in front of the whole town!” Stiles says, swinging his arm out to indicate the total of twenty other people in the stands. His dad just swats him with his sweaty, gross hat and heads back out to the mound.

The next two batters strike out and the runner on first gets tagged trying to steal second and Stiles hollers loudly, jumping up and down in excitement. It’s tapered, however, when Rex, the unofficial K-9 unit mascot, barks joyfully beside him, his tongue lolling out as he looks up at Stiles.

"You had better be a clean doggy."


	16. Stubble Burn (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: sexual in nature  
> Prompt: Sterek, with Derek having a think for stubble burn

It isn’t their first time together, but it is the first time either one has stayed the night.

Sunlight pours in through the windows and it forces Derek to throw an arm over his eyes as he groans. The warm body next to him shifts, turning to face him. A nose gets buried in his neck with a deep, sleepy sigh and Derek thinks he could easily get used to this. The weight of another person waking up next to him, the hand drawing lazy patterns on his chest. The leg that situates itself in-between his and the steady pace of a usually rabbit-fast heart.

It’s all something that’s so entirely pleasant that he wants to tell the day to fuck off and let him have a few more hours of it.

But Stiles, it seems, is one of those _morning_ people that get up with the sun, and isn’t that a tragedy? The kid is already getting fidgety, and Derek just lies there and waits for when he eventually gets up, grabs his clothes, and leaves.

Instead, Stiles’ finger tips grow in pressure, no longer drawing nonsense designs onto his skin. No, now they’re tracing down his torso, down toward the sheet that just covers him at his hips. Stiles shifts again, lips pressing into Derek’s neck almost timidly. Derek moans to let him know that he definitely prefers this to him leaving and the kid’s mouth gets more insistent.

And then he drags his face down Derek’s neck and he feels it. It’s a prickling caused by Stiles chin that sends a spark of _something_ through Derek’s spine. The rough little whiskers are few, but can’t be called peach fuzz by any means. They leave as much a hot trail as Stiles’ mouth and Derek can’t help the hairs on his arms from standing up. The scrape of Stiles’ early morning stubble is quickly followed by a soothing tongue and it’s enough to cause Derek to growl low in his throat as he feels himself harden.

So this is a thing, Derek thinks as Stiles moves to his chest and further down, pulling the sheet aside. This is definitely a thing.


	17. Death Rattle (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: madness, mentioning of self-harm  
> Prompt: Lydia goes mad from everything she hears.

The thing about death is that it’s happening all the time.

It’s something they really should have thought about in the beginning, back when all she could hear were echos and distant voices. When she actively had to search for those echos, to find the pieces and make them sing to her.

Back when she had to scream just to make them clear.

She doesn’t now. Back then it seemed so inefficient, so haphazard and confusing. She’s nothing, if not a perfectionist, so eventually she set upon finding a way to hone this skill, to make it something effortless and automatic. She wanted to make the world around her sing without command.

But then the singing didn’t stop. And quickly, the singing became moaning, and then wailing. Soon every sound became more than itself, resonating in her head in waves that wouldn’t - _couldn’t_ \- relent. Not when she covers her ears. Not when she pulls so hard at her hair, handfuls fall away. Not when she screams and screams and begs for it to stop.

The thing about death is that she hears it every second.


	18. Love You From Afar (And Oh So Very Close) (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: stalking, home invasion, creeper behavior  
> Prompt: Stalker!Derek and Sterek

Derek has a boyfriend.

It feels so high school to say, but the evidence is staring him in the face. He arranges the coffee and brown bag containing a bagel in the spot the that Stiles usually sits, way back in the underused sections. He needs to be at work soon and yet he’s making sure the kid doesn’t go hungry before lunch just because he skips breakfast.

Not that Derek hasn’t tried to get him to eat in the mornings, subtly supplying the cabinets with poptarts, leaving the orange juice out on the counter, tossing a banana in the kid’s book bag before he leaves for the campus.

He’s busy during the day at the workshop, fixing cars and tuning engines, but on his breaks he’s always sure to check Stiles’ twitter. He mentions something about wanting to do a movie tonight, and Derek thinks that’s actually a great idea. It’s been a while since they saw a movie together.

He ends up having to sit behind Stiles, because Stiles brought Scott and that means popcorn is going to go flying at some point, and he really doesn’t want to be left finding kernels in the folds of his jacket for the next week. Whatever, it’s fine. Scott and Stiles have been friends for years now, and Derek isn’t going to be one of those guys that gets jealous of his boyfriend’s “best bros.”

They go drinking after that. The bar is lively and inviting, several groups of people enjoying the beginning of the weekend and having fun. Stiles and Scott play darts for most of the time, and it’s hilarious to watch two people so tipsy and uncoordinated scare those in the way of them and the board. Derek stays out of the line of fire up at the bar and pays for their drinks. Stiles is confused when the bartender says it’s been taken care of, but is happy about it nonetheless.

He shouldn’t be so surprised when Derek does things like this for him. They don’t go out often.

He’s glad that Stiles has had a good time. It’s been rare to see that wild, happy smile lately, what with school stress and his part time job weighing down on him. Derek lets Scott take Stiles up to bed so they can say goodnight to each other. He busies himself with making sure the taxi driver is paid.

Scott heads home then, and Derek makes his way up to the apartment. He uses his key to unlock the door Scott secured behind him and appreciates that Stiles has such a careful friend. He’s also thankful to see Stiles face down on the bed, snoring peacefully away. It’s one less night that he’ll have to slip him a sleeping aid. His insomnia’s been so bad lately.

With a practiced ease, Derek strips down and slides under the covers, pulling Stiles close to him. He breathes in his boyfriend’s hair and can’t help but feel that they’ve really reached a good point in their relationship.

Maybe Derek will finally say hello to him soon.


	19. Love You From Afar (And Oh So Very Close) pt 2 (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: stalking, home invasion, drugging, kidnapping  
> Prompt: Continuation of Stalker!Derek

Stiles is pretty sure he’s losing his mind.

He stares with sleep bleary eyes at the half gallon of orange juice on his counter and considers texting Scott to ask him if he was raised by wolves. But Scott didn’t have orange juice last night, did he? No, there was pizza and enough Mountain Dee to leave them both sterile, but he doesn’t remember Scott having a glass of OJ before he left.

It’s not just that.

There are things he doesn’t remember buying, shoved in his cabinets and in his bathroom; food, band-aids, things like that. He knows he must have bought them at some point, because there they are, but he’s always a little cautious when he checks the expiration dates of things. What if this stuff has been back in the cabinets for months? Maybe even when he first moved in? Nothing tastes stale, though, so there’s that.

When he comes home one day to find his door unlocked, he gets a little worried.

He looks around, but nothing seems to be stolen. His TV and his laptop are still there, his money is still tucked up in the light fixtures. He must have just forgotten, which is odd in and of itself. This isn’t exactly a high crime neighborhood, but he’s the Sheriff’s kid, and keeping the door locked at all times is sort of second nature to him now.

Little things start to bother him. Like how his books are sometimes out of order, or a door being open wider than he remembers leaving it. He hasn’t been able to find his favorite shirt in days, and sometimes a light is left on.

He’s thinks he knows what the problem is. He’s been waking up tired recently, a lethargic weight in his muscles that makes it hard to get out of bed in the morning some days. He’s not on anything, so he’s left to assume that this is something similar that happened when he was nine. He grew out of sleepwalking early on, but he knows it can be triggered by stress and whatnot, and he has been feeling oddly paranoid lately.

There’s really only one way to be sure.

He sets up his laptop webcam to record during the night. The picture will be shit, but he leaves his lamp on that night anyway to be sure he can at least see something. If he is sleepwalking, it’s just a matter of seeing his doctor, maybe taking some time off of work, and focusing on getting as much school work done in advance as he can.

When he wakes up, his lamp has been shut off.

He clicks it off and on to be sure that it’s still working before going over and checking his laptop. Six hours of footage. This’ll be fun to sort through. He decides to at least eat something while watching and heads to the kitchen to grab a banana and a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He makes sure he’s comfortable before sitting at his desk and playing the footage at double speed. He drinks half the bottle before his digital self even falls asleep. Nibbling on a piece of banana he watches as the times stamp runs and absolutely nothing happens.

Until it does.

Stiles fails, sitting up in his chair and rewinding the footage before playing back at normal speed.

What?

Stiles watches as someone enters his room from off camera. The person doesn’t skulk around like a prowler, instead walking up to the bed as if it’s nothing, as if it were only natural. Stiles forces the lump in his throat down as he watches the man pull off his shoes, and suddenly his sheer bafflement becomes a sickening twist in his stomach as the man undoes his belt, stripping down and sliding into bed with Stiles, reaching over him to turn out the light. The screen turns to a grainy black.

Stiles is pretty sure he’s having a panic attack.

Dizzingly, he reaches over for his phone to call his dad, but his hand doesn’t respond to his command to grip it, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thud. His limbs feel heavy while his head feels light. This isn’t a panic attack, he thinks as his hand knocks over his bottle of water and his vision gets blurry. He’s not even coordinated enough to jump when arms encircle him from behind and lips press again his ear.

"Hello."


	20. Love You From Afar (And Oh So Very Close) pt 3 (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: kidnapping, non-con, vague descriptions of rape, self-harm in the form of not eating  
> Prompt: Continuation of Stalker!Derek with a helping of badwrong

Derek knows that there’s a trial and error period when couples move in together.

It takes time to get used to each other’s little habits. Derek admits to having a slight advantage, because in the beginning he had wanted to make sure that Stiles was The One. And that takes time. Time and a spare key. He knows he has to be patient with Stiles now that they’re in this new phase of their relationship.

He understands that Stiles isn’t used to falling asleep with another person in the bed. Something about it makes him anxious, sometimes enough to cry at night. Derek makes an effort to crawl into bed after he’s had his pills and gone under. That isn’t always an option though, because Stiles needs real sleep every once in a while. Those nights, Derek does his best to hold him close and sooth him to sleep. And there are nights were it takes a little more, where Derek has to wear him out first.

Derek likes those nights the best.

It seems wrong to say, but Stiles is pretty when he cries. He worried at first, thinking the restraints he uses are hurting him. But there isn’t anything worse than mild chaffing, and Derek takes his time preparing. No, he’s learned that Stiles is showing Derek his vulnerable side, and it warms a place inside of Derek’s chest. He stops when he’s told to stop, letting Stiles catch his breath before starting again, because he knows it’s important to let Stiles adjust.

He knows Stiles misses his dad. He’s brought him up plenty of times, telling Derek that he’s the sheriff, as if Derek didn’t already know that. He tells Derek that he needs to go home, he needs to see his dad. But they’re still adjusting to one another, so Derek does it for him. He checks in on the Sheriff from time to time. He watches the man search furiously for Stiles, even gets in line behind him at the supermarket and listens to people offer their condolences and voice their concerns.

He tells Stiles his father is just fine, because he doesn’t want the Sheriff’s frequent sleepless nights and endless searching to worry Stiles. He tells him about Scott’s new girlfriend, because he thinks it will cheer Stiles up to know his friend had finally made a move. He makes sure not to tell him that Scott has been putting up flyers and checking hospitals and shelters continuously for weeks.

The good news seems to help. Stiles no longer makes things difficult. He doesn’t protest when Derek slides into bed before he falls asleep. He doesn’t ask Derek to stop anymore, though he still cries sometimes, still lets Derek see that beautiful vulnerable side. He doesn’t ask about his dad or Scott or his school work or his job. He lets Derek take care of him, love him.

He does, however, stop eating as much. Derek worries he’s fallen back on his bad habit of skipping meals. When he can feel Stiles’ ribs one night in bed, feels how bony his hips have become in his hands, how frail he’s is now, he knows he has to do something. It isn’t easy to force someone to eat who doesn’t want to, but it isn’t impossible. He comes away with a bite mark or two, but finds he likes that renewed fire in Stiles’ eyes when he does it.

Relationships are made up of a series of compromises. Couples have good days and bad. They’re no different, really, even if they are meant to be. It’s fine, Derek can be patient. He can wait for that day when Stiles finally says, “I love you, too.”


	21. He's With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: author's inability to writing a good fake boyfriend drabble  
> Prompt: Sterek + fake/pretend relationship

Stiles wants to tell Alpha Ortiz to fuck off, but he’s already in trouble for breaking his bat across the face of one of her betas, so maybe he should really just sit these talks out.

"You’re new to how this works," she tells Scott. "Having allies can only help you." Scott spares a glance back to all of them before turning back to Alpha Ortiz.

"Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but I have all the help I need," he says, sweeping an arm back to his friends. Alpha Ortiz looks at each of them.

"An interesting pack you have, yes," she says. "But I told you, you’re new to how things work. Our territories run parallel to each one another. As we have no quarrel, it’s custom to make a show of non-hostility." Scott shrugs.

"Alright, fine. How do we do that?" he asks. Alpha Ortiz looks back into her pack, and the young man that Stiles clipped across the chin steps forward. Alpha Ortiz points directly to Stiles.

"Your human there is impressive. He and Jaime will make a decent pair. Stiles laughs because, hey, lady’s got jokes, but when no one else laughs with him, when Scott looks back to him with concern in his eyes, he realizes she isn’t trying to be funny. Immediately he steps back with his hands held up.

"Oh-ho, no. No, thanks. I’m- I’m good," Stiles stutters out. Scott turns back to Alpha Ortiz.

"I’m afraid that’s not doable," Scott says, and Stiles wants to kiss him. Alpha Ortiz, however, is undeterred.

"And why’s that? He’s healthy, fit. He’s already proven that he has his own means of running with wolves. And Jaime himself has taken a liking to him."

Stiles doesn’t look the dude in the eye, because the last time he did, he’s pretty sure he ended up breaking the guy’s jaw, at least temporarily. He doesn’t want to spark any lingering ill will. Also, who gets hit with a bat and sees hearts instead of stars? Weirdos, that’s who. He opens his mouth to contest this bizarre turn of events when someone places a hand on his shoulder.

"He’s with me," Derek says and Stiles stares at him with bug eyes. Scott to has turned to stare at them both, but Stiles realizes that Alpha Ortiz is anything but convinced. Stiles swallows and wraps his arms around himself and looks to Derek.

"They weren’t supposed to find out like this," he whispers, but he knows it’s loud enough for everyone there to hear. Scott looks pole-axed, as if he’s not sure if what he’s hearing is real or not, but Stiles doesn’t have the luxury of being able to give him a little _wink-wink-nudge-nudge_. Kira, though, is off to the side, doing little jumps and clapping her hands enthusiastically. Still stunned, Scott turns back to Alpha Ortiz.

"No one in my pack is with out a partner," he says slowly. "We’ll have to come up with something else."

Everyone holds their breath as Alpha Ortiz stares them down. Derek brings his hand down to Stiles’ waist, and Stiles leans into him without even thinking about it. Signing, the alpha looks to her beta apologetically.

"I tried," she says, and Jaime’s shoulders drop as he walks back to stand in line with the others.


	22. A Lesson in Indecency (E)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: E  
> Warnings: anal fingering, masturbation  
> Prompt: Gifsets of Dylan O'Brien's stupid fucking hands.

When they started, Stiles was ridiculously excited as he watched Derek coat his fingers. His thick fingers. Oh yeah, Stiles was down for that in a major way.

Until about half way through the prep when Stiles finally just has to say no.

"Stop," he say, sitting up and forcing Derek to pull his fingers out. Derek blinks down at him in confusion.

"Did it hurt?" he asks. Stiles sighs loudly, flopping back against the pillow.

"No, Derek, it didn’t hurt. But it didn’t feel particularly good, either," Stiles says, mourning his flagging erection. Derek’s face turn sour and maybe a little embarrassed.

"I’ve never done this before," he says defensively. Stiles lifts his head slightly off of the pillow, eyebrow raised.

"Seriously?"

"Not- not this. Like you’d be any better at it,” Derek says irritably, as if mocking Stiles’ virginity is really the way to go right before he takes it. Such a charmer. But Stiles just levels him with a glare, holding his hand out.

"Lube," he says. Derek’s eyebrows shoot up, but he rolls his eyes and passes the bottle over. Stiles coats his fingers, tossing the small container to the side and pulling up his legs. "Pay attention."

His circles his hole lazily at first, making sure Derek’s eyes are following his fingers. Slowly, he slips one in a far as he can. He pushes and pulls until it becomes easy and then crooks his finger. A small shiver of pleasure runs down his spine and he can hear Derek swallow above him. The man looks almost entranced as Stiles adds a second finger, sliding it in along the first and pulling himself open a bit. It feels so much dirtier having someone watch him, and he almost feels like he should put on a show.

With a practiced ease, he builds a rhythm, a series of thrusts offset by an electrifying motion against just the right spot and scissoring himself as wide as he can. He lifts his feet up, planting them on Derek’s shoulders as he leverages himself up to give Derek a better view.

Derek is panting as he grabs Stiles by his thighs, further lifting him and spreading his legs. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of Stiles hole the entire time and actually growls when Stiles finally adds a third finger. Noises are coming out of Stiles’ mouth against his will now, the combined sensations of the self-assault against his prostate and Derek’s bruising grip are too much. He needs to stop now before he comes too soon.

But Derek has other ideas.

He lets go of one leg, surging his hand forward to press against Stiles’, forcing his fingers even deeper. Stiles arches his back with a moan, almost missing the way Derek gathers the excess lube around his hole.

And then he presses one of his own fingers along side Stiles’. The stretch is more than he’s used to from doing this to himself, a pleasurable burn that contrasts with the frantic movements of their fingers.

He comes so hard he seems stars behind his eyelids.

Weakly, he slips his fingers out, a vulgar squelching sound accompanying the motion. Derek, though, does not. Instead, he replaces the fingers Stiles’ removed, slowly working the mess within the loosened hole. Stiles whines in his throat, still a little sensitive so soon after coming, but he doesn’t stop him.

"Y-yeah," he stutters as his legs fall to the side. "That’s how you do it."


	23. World's Worst First Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: (none)  
> Prompt: Awkward Sterek first date

"I’m sorry, could you run that by me again?"

"… The diner downtown. Do you… Would you like to get lunch sometime? With me?"

"What is this? What’s happening right now?"

In hindsight, probably not the best attitude to have when being asked out.

-

They sit across from each other stiffly, an awkward silence falling between them as the noise of the busy diner filters around their booth. Derek has taken off his jacket, but he look nowhere remotely near comfortable. He shifts in his seat several times while they wait to have their orders taken, and Stiles can honestly say he’s never seen Derek so fidgety.

He’s not really doing any better himself. He’s rearranged his silverware at least four times now, counted the sugar packets, and even made an origami penguin out of his napkin. He tries getting it to sit up, but his folds are shit and it topples over every time.

Derek makes a frustrated sound in his nose and reaches out to grab the napkin. Stiles blinks as he watches Derek undo all of his shitty work and refold the edges. When he’s done, he sets a crane in the middle of the table, a little raggedy from too many foldings, but standing nonetheless.

"Show off," Stiles says. He means it playfully, but Derek’s mouth forms a tight line anyway. Stiles is about to say something else when the waitress finally comes. Stiltedly, they give her their orders and fall back into non-speaking territory. Stiles reaches out to take the crane, pulling at its tail a bit before trying again. "Sooo…"

Derek looks up at him expectantly. Stiles racks his brain to try to come up with a topic of conversation, but nothing seems really appropriate. He doesn’t know if he should ask about Cora, or maybe about whatever happened to the Camaro, or if he should finally get a straight answer about werewolves and _fleas_ , but what little self-preservation he has is keeping his mouth shut.

And that’s literally how the rest of their lunch goes.

Any time Stiles thinks of something to ask or say, something else in his head tells him it’s probably a bad idea. Whenever Derek looks like he might say something, Stiles must look too eager, because Derek will eventually stop making false starts and go back to eating.

Stiles is pretty sure it’s the worst first date in history.

Derek seems to agree, because he has that _face_ , the one that says he’s hating himself and his life choices. He carries it the entire drive back to Stiles’ house, the silence still heavy around them. When they make it into the driveway, neither moves. Stiles doesn’t know what to say, which is a first in his life, and Derek is just a ball of inaction. Stiles is pretty sure he’s not getting a kiss, not with the colossal failure this has been.

"Okay," he finally says, reaching for the handle. "So… thanks for lunch?"

"Yeah," Derek says simply, staring at his steering wheel. He shakes his head and looks over to Stiles. "Sorry, this was a bad idea." Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Derek is already throwing the Toyota into reverse, so Stiles takes it as his cue to get the hell out.

And then Derek drives off.

Which is complete _bullshit_.

Stiles spends the evening going over the day’s events and gets more and more pissed the longer he thinks about it. A diner? Really? That’s how Derek wanted to start things between them after months of circling each other? What was this, the 50s? He didn’t even _try_ , not really. He had asked Stiles on that stupid date, he should have been a little more prepared!

No, he was probably just so sure from the beginning that things would go south and didn’t even bother to try and stop it from happening. What a dick. Didn’t Derek know that they could be fucking _bomb_ together? Wasn’t that worth being able to strike up a simple fucking conversation?

Yeah, well, Stiles Stilinski is no one’s failed experiment in social interaction. His and Derek’s combined _lives_ are failed experiments in social interaction, so the guy could at least hope for negating results! Stiles could have done this way better than him!

Stiles lets the pen he’s been balancing on his nose fall to the ground as he thinks that over.

You know what? He could. He could do a lot better.

-

"Do you like baseball?"

"What?"

"Baseball. America’s pastime. The most perfect sport to be played. Stick and a ball, you follow?"

"Stiles-"

"We should see a game together."

"… I like baseball."

"Well, would you look at that. Date numero dos is officially on the books. Don’t forget to bring a glove. If you don’t catch me a foul ball, I’m not making out with you in the dugout post-game."

"I’ll- I will buy a glove."

Damn right he will.


	24. Eichen House Horror (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: blood, gore, body horror, author failing at subtlety  
> Prompt: Eichen House + Stiles + Nightmares

Being sedated is interesting to say the least.

It’s a sensation that hits your limbs first before it hits your brain. It makes your legs feel weak and your arms heavy, and it numbs the pain upon your inevitable collision with the ground. All the while your vision blurs and a fog settles over your mind, so thick that the only thing you can even process is how cold you feel all of a sudden before you’re pulled under.

Stiles isn’t a fan of being sedated.

When he wakes up, he always feels heavy and lethargic and never quite fully cognizant. But that’s if he wakes up without dreaming. You’re not supposed to dream on this stuff, he’s been informed. He does sometimes anyway, because when has he ever done what he was told?

He doesn’t like the dreams he has.

They don’t feel like dreams, but they’re not like the ones he’s had before. Those had at least had some structure in the beginning, even when things began to fall to ruin. The world he finds himself part of in these new dreams is different. Things are still clear, absent of any fuzzy clouding or ethereal quality, but things are noticeably Not Right.

No, everything he sees is in these dreams is in high definition and he wishes it wasn’t.

He walks the halls of Eichen House because staying in his room is so much worse. His bed is never without a darkness creeping out from under it, or pools of blood in the sheets, staining the mattress. His walls become something almost alive, warm to the touch and feeling like skin that gives under his hand. There are hands scraping at his barred window and crying coming from his pillow.

The halls are marginally preferable.

Because he doesn’t know the bodies hanging from the doors. He’s followed his dad’s cases enough that he’s learned to compartmentalize these things. “The body” instead of “she”; “the victim” instead of “him”. It helps. A little. It still turns his stomach when he turns corners and sees makeshift organs made up of patients and orderlies. The most disturbing of these is The Heart. It lies in the recreation room, a mass of bodies writhing and undulating in the rhythm of a pulse, each composing part bleeding out with every beat.

He avoids the rec room.

The halls remain the least upsetting, dark corridors that have a series of seriously temperamental bulbs flashing and popping and creating an ominous atmosphere. But at least here he can’t hear the screaming of mouths sewn shut or the wailing of something inhuman. Here there’s just the hum of electricity and the occasional creak of the building.

The shadows get easy to ignore.

They pull at his clothes as he walks by, but their grips are weak and brittle. The ones that go for his ankles trip him up a couple of times, but he always catches himself before he falls. Falling is bad. The shards of glass show up when he falls, cutting into his hands and knees and shredding the grey clothes he’s been given.

He always goes this way, toward the desolate reception desk. It’s where the dehydrated, practically mummified bodies of others patients are leading. He follows them, each eternally stretching out for desk or the exit, all without eyes or tongues. He’s careful to walk over them, only occasionally stepping on a hand or two, causing them to disintegrate.

The reception station itself is covered in blood, so much so that it’s dripping over the counter and onto another corpse. Blood is the least terrifying thing about this place, so he swallows and deals with it. Walking up to the desk, he reaches out for the sign in chart, the only thing not splattered with viscera of some kind. The bright white paper is a stark contrast to the deep red around him. It doesn’t feel any safer.

Looking down at the chart, he holds back tears when he sees his full name written in the Admission column in his dad’s handwriting. Whenever he reaches the desk, he always wonders why he chooses this path, why he doesn’t stay in his living, writhing room, or stomach The Heart because the reception desk is by far the worse, no matter what he tells himself. Because, when he looks toward the Release column, he sees the same Japanese characters he doesn’t understand, with a note out to the side that says,

"Be back soon."

Stiles isn’t a fan of being sedated. Because sometimes he dreams.

And when he wakes up, he knows he’s hurt someone.


	25. O Brother Where Art Thou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: use of meta theory, Lahey Family Feels  
> Prompt: Deputy Parrish is actually Camden Lahey + reunion with Isaac

"That’ll do it for now. I need to head to the hospital soon to take Isaac Lahey’s statement," the Sheriff says, giving his deputy the nod for dismissal. Parrish’s head shoots up in surprise.

"He’s awake?"

"Woke up a few hours ago," the Sheriff says. Parrish’s lips form a thin line before he stands up from his desk.

"I can do that," he says, forcing a smile. The Sheriff gives him a look.

"Are you sure? You’re on the tail end of a double. Now, I really appreciate all the work you’ve been doing but-"

"It’s fine!" Parrish insists. "What’s one more hour? Besides, I know you probably want to see your son before visiting hours end." It’s a dirty tactic he knows, and he feels guilty when the Sheriff face falls for a moment. But the Sheriff just gives him a smile and squeezes his shoulder.

"Thank you," he says.

Parrish is pretty sure he’s going to hell.

-

All it takes is a flash of his badge before Parrish is behind the “family only” line. Nurse McCall, Isaac’s guardian, is good enough to show him to the room. When she turns to leave him to it, he can’t help but reach out and lay a hand gently on her arm. He thanks her as sincerely as he can, perhaps a bit too much if her lingering, questioning gaze is anything to go by.

When she exits the room, Parrish stands there for a moment.

Isaac may have been awake this afternoon, but he’s in a light doze now. From where he is, Parrish can see the electrical burns running along his arm and up as far as his hair line. It’s bad, but it looks a lot better than what Parrish remembers when Isaac was being placed in the back of the ambulance. Slowly, quietly, he steps forward to the bed until he’s on Isaac’s left side. As gently as he can, he reaches over to shake Isaac’s uninjured shoulder.

The movement of Isaac’s eyes behind closed lids quickens for a moment before they open to small slits. It takes a few seconds for him to blink away the drowsiness of his sedative, but eventually he takes a deep breath, turning slightly to Parrish. His eyes widen a fraction, taking in Parrish’s face. His heart monitor picks up as well, not too fast, but a significant difference from his resting heart rate.

"How-" Isaac starts. Tears begin to form in his eyes and Parrish slides his hand from his shoulder to take his hand. "Camden?"

"Hey, little brother."

"I don’t-" Isaac’s voice is rough with sleep and tears. He grips Parrish’s hand tight, so much tighter than Parrish would have thought him able. "Am I dead?" Isaac asks.

It cuts into Parrish, bringing out a guilt he’s been burying for so long.

"Not yet, kid," he says, his own vision blurring. "Not for a long time."

Not if Parrish has anything to say about it.


	26. Birthday Delivery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: pack feels  
> Prompt: The pack finds out about Derek's birthday, so they decide to make him a cake and get him gifts.

When Derek wakes up that morning, it’s with the knowledge that today he’s getting pizza.

He doesn’t get it often, because when he was younger he used to eat it all the time, and it drove his mother insane. He had to make a conscious effort not to order it every day, or to only have two slices when he really wanted the whole thing. Eventually he realized it’s just easier to stop eating it all together.

But today is his birthday, and he’s going to treat himself.

He lazes about until the restaurant opens, calling in at exactly 11:00AM. Two large, deep dish Meat Lovers with extra cheese and extra sauce and yes he would like breadsticks with that, thanks. His stomach is already growling in anticipation when the door bell rings not long after his call.

Tragically, it is not the pizza guy.

"Hey, Derek! Might want to throw on some pants, the girls are right downstairs," Scott says as he shuffles past Derek. He’s carrying a brightly wrapped package and plastic sack filled with _something_. Before Derek can close the loft door and ask him just what the hell he thinks he’s doing, Isaac catches the door with his hands and pushes it open wider for Lydia and Allison.

"Did you just wake up?" Allison asks, throwing a playful glance to his underwear. Derek likes to think he looks at her intimidatingly, but he can feel his ears burning.

"I actually disappointed that they don’t have hearts," Lydia says with a frown. Scott laughs as he arranges packages on the coffee table.

"Now I know you’ve been spending too much time with Stiles," he says. Then he seems to realize what that sounds likes and nearly trips over himself backtracking. "No, no, wait!" Lydia just shrugs contemplatively and walks over to deposit the tray of mini cheeses she’s been holding. Derek watches them all, perplexed and greatly annoyed.

"What the hell is this?" he demands. Everyone pauses and turns to look at him.

"It’s your birthday," Scott says simply. Isaac pops a small confetti bottle.

"How do you even know that?" Derek asks. Scott opens his mouth to answer when there’s a commotion outside of the door.

"Make way!" Kira says, pushing the door open wider. She shuffles Derek to the side to when Stiles comes wheeling in a small utility cart that Derek is pretty sure he’s seen at the Sheriff’s station. On top of it is a monstrous  cake, three tiers high and ridiculously wide. Stiles himself is covered in flour and icing from his hands to his rolled up sleeves (there’s even some in his hair) and Derek can’t help but ask.

"Did you make that?"

Stiles throws him a smug look over his shoulder and he maneuvers the cart to the coffee table. Furiously, he rifles through the plastic sack Scott brought in, pulling out a box of candles and matches and handing them to Kira.

"Triple layer, triple marble, triple _delicious_. And I only had to be up at four in the morning to start it,” he says, and Derek can see the manic energy in his eyes now and wonders how much of his Adderall Stiles has gone through today.

"I helped with the mixing and the icing!" Kira says excitedly as she places the candles. They’re in the configuration of a crescent moon, and Derek doesn’t have the heart to tell her how ridiculous it looks. Instead, he stays silent as the others try to situate themselves in a line and sing Happy Birthday to him, mostly off key.

When they finish, they watch him expectantly. He’s still in nothing but his sleep clothes, in the middle of a drafty loft, with cake and presents on his table, and people singing him songs. He leans over the cake and takes a deep breath.

"Huff and puff there, big guy," Stiles says and Derek blows in his face instead. Stiles flails back, rubbing his face and cursing Derek’s family name as Derek blows the candles out proper. The girls clap as Scott and Isaac immediately pounce of the cake.

Suddenly, there’s a knock on the side of the open door.

"Uh, pizza delivery?" the guys says, uneasily taking in the empty expanse of the loft.

"Oh, dude! You ordered pizza too?"

"Dinner and dessert before noon. Awesome!"

"If either of you touches my pizza, you’re dead!"


	27. The Healing Properties of Small Animals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: werewolf bros feels, Hale Family Feels  
> Prompt: Derek and cats

The animal clinic has seen its fair share of weird shit this past year, but Scott is going to rank this one up there amongst the top 5.

 

"Uh, y-yeah. Sure. They’re back this way," he says to Derek.

They both stand there awkwardly for a couple more seconds before Scott turns and leads him to one of the back rooms. The cats still aren’t overly fond of him, but they don’t freak out anymore. They keep from going crazy when Derek walks in with him, but they’re noticeably on edge.

"Okay, so, all of the cats with red tags on their cages have owners. All the others are strays that we’re taking care of until the no-kill shelter downtown gets a few openings," Scott instructs. Derek gives his a curt nod before stepping forward.

Many of the cats back away further into their cages and Scott sees Derek’s lip form a thin line before the man visibly tries to relax his shoulders and make his presence less threatening. It… doesn’t really seem to be helping.

"You know," Scott starts. "Stiles was totally joking the other day. You don’t really have to get a cat to prove you’re capable of not… killing something." Scott shifts uneasily. "Maybe you should start with a house plant?" He winces as soon as it comes out of him mouth. Derek doesn’t look upset, though, just resigned. 

"It’s not about what Stiles said," Derek tells him. And then he amends, "Much." He walks further down the row of cages, and each time he stops in front of one the cat inside would let out a low, warning sound. "There used to be a lot of stray cats around town a few years ago."

"Oh, yeah," Scott says, blinking. "Deaton told me about it. That was before the city started the spay and neuter program, right?" Derek nods, bendind slightly to look inside of a cage.

"When I was a kid, they weren’t so afraid of me. Laura and I would sometimes put a few in our backpacks and try to sneak them into our basement and feed them."

Scott doesn’t know why Derek is telling him this, but he takes no action to stop him.

"After my first shift, they stopped coming up to me when I tried to pet them. One actually tried to scratch my eyes out," Derek says with a small laugh, rubbing at his eyes. Scott wrings his hands a bit and looks to the cats. None of them are reacting well to Derek, and the guy seems to know that because he shakes his head in defeat. Suddenly, Scott gets an idea.

"Hey, come here!" he says, patting Derek on the arm as he moves by to the corner of the room. He assumes Derek is following him and bends down to the enclosed section where Mrs. Mittens newborns. Carefully, he picks one up into his hands. It let’s out a tiny high pitched squeak, stretching its legs out with its eyes still closed. He turns to Derek, holding the kitten out.

Derek looks baffled, and maybe a little scared, when Scott gently places the kitten in his hands. Derek holds it far away from him at first before realizing he could drop it and pulling it in toward his chest. The kitten mewls and rolls in his hands, eventually rolling over to push its head into his shirt.

"Maybe all you need to do is give one time to know you’re safe," Scott says. "Best way to do that is take care of it before it can take care of itself." He blinks then, realizing he might have just stumbled upon something profound there. He looks up at Derek to see if he caught it too, but Derek is still looking down at the kitten with an intense expression.

"We never took care of the really young ones," Derek says slowly. Scott just smiles.

"Dude, don’t worry. We’ve got pamphlets!"


	28. Welcome Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: pity party, pack feels  
> Prompt: Post-3B, Stiles learns that he does not have dementia, but his friends aren't at the hospital for him.

Know what sucks? Dementia.

Know what sucks even more? Your friends not being there when you find out you _don’t_ have dementia.

Even as he and he dad share relief hug after tear-filled relief hug, Stiles can honestly say whatever elation he got from this news has fizzled out by the time he takes in the empty waiting room.

He gets it though, he does.

He did some horrible things, and while it wasn’t _him_ , it was still his face. He still has a difficult time looking at himself in the mirror; why should he expect that the others would feel differently? It’s not fair to them, really, him being as upset about as he is. As many times as he tries to remind himself of that on the way home, it doesn’t really help at all.

When he gets home, all he wants to do is sleep until he’s old enough to drink, and then he wants to drink until he’s old enough to _die_.

The dying almost comes a little too soon when he flips on the light and a multitude of people shout,

"WELCOME HOME!"

His dad has to catch him by the shoulders to keep him from falling on his ass. Once his heart has stepped down from the samba to a foxtrot, he takes in all of the familiar faces; Melissa, Lydia, Kira, Allison. Scott, Derek, and surprisingly Danny and Isaac. Scott immediately breaks from their line to draw him into a crushing hug.

"We missed you, man," he says.

And Stiles doesn’t care that he’s in a room full of people who could give him hell for it later. He wraps his arms around Scott tightly and cries happily into his shoulder.


	29. Two Idiots and a Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: (none)  
> Prompt: Pack babysitting

"Here, baby, baby, baby!"

"Stiles, she’s not a cat!"

"Well, then, sniff her out, jackass! Stop standing there doing nothing!"

Stiles gets up off his knees from where he was looking under the couch, angrily looking back at his friend. He regrets being so short with Scott, but he’s flustered and panicky. There’s a missing baby on the loose and Deputy Thatcher is never going to trust him with anything ever again including feeding the K-9 units. Stiles loves feeding those guys.

"Doesn’t she have, I don’t know, a particular _smell_?” Stiles ask. Scott wrinkles his nose and looks around the room.

"Everything smells… _particular_ right now. Babies, man.”

Stiles thinks it’s a weak excuse.

“ _Help me_!” Stiles begs. Scott makes a helpless face and looks around.

"Here, baby, baby, baby?"

Stiles throws one of the couch cushions at him. Scott catches it easily, but Stiles ignores him in favor of tearing through the house. Scott lets him at it, instead opening the door to the hallway closet. Deputy Thatcher’s little baby girl giggles and claps her hands where she sits comfortably on a blanket with her blocks. She looks up happily to Scott.

"Hide!" she giggles. Scott smiles and nods.

"That’s right! Hide and Seek with Uncle Stiles!"


	30. Movie Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: pack feels  
> Prompt: It's movie night at the McCall house and the pack decided they're gonna watch Disney movies.

"Let’s watch _The Lion King_!”

"If I wanted to sit through Hamlet, I’d go to the theatre."

"Okay, who invited Peter? I declared this event a zombie free zone yesterday."

Derek ignores Stiles and Peter in favor of glaring holes into the movie rack at the Video 2*C store. _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ or _The Great Mouse Detective_?

"Can we watch the _Fox and the Hound_?” Isaac asks, holding it up.

“ _No_!” Scott and Stiles say together.

“ _The Rescuers Down Under_!” Kira says, pulling the movie down from the rack. Allison joins her and they talked excitedly amongst themselves.

"Scott! _Mulan_!” Stiles says, tossing him the movie. Scott catches it and he and Stiles immediately fall into power stances.

"Be a man-"

"You must be swift as a coursing river-"

"Be a man-"

"With all the force of a great typhoon-"

“ _Be a man_ -“

"With all the strength of a raging fire-"

"Mysterious as the dark side of the moooooooooon!" They finish together, shifting their power stances and making the rest turn away from them, attempting to appear as if they aren’t with the weirdos singing in the middle of the store. The clerk, however, doesn’t even bat an eye, continuing to check cases for DVDs.

Derek chooses the _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ and smacks the duo both on the backs of their heads as he heads to check out.


	31. Cards Against Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: (none)  
> Prompt: Continuation of the D&D AU.

"Since Stiles ruined our last on-going game night-"

"I was _in character!_ ”

"-we’ve decided to play something else."

Lydia holds up an ominous black box for everyone to see.

"What kind of game is it?" Kira asks.

"Cards Against Humanity. It’s like Apples to Apples, only the object of the game is to be a terrible human being," Lydia explains. Everyone turns to glare at Stiles simultaneously.

“ _What_?”

"I don’t think I want to play this game," Isaac says, already standing up from the couch. There are grumblings amongst the others in agreement. Lydia and Stiles both look as though they’re about to protest, but Scott is the one who stands up.

"Come on, guys! Let’s just give it a chance, okay? Stiles isn’t the only one here capable of being a dick," he says, pointedly looking each and every one of them in the eye.

In the end, no one is able to cast the first stone and the card table is set up.

-

“ _I learned the hard way that you can’t cheer up a grieving friend by blank_. Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Lydia looks through the shuffled cards.

“ _Being fabulous_ … _Drinking alone_ … _Leaving an awkward voice mail_ … Okay, who played _Making the penises kiss_?”

No one fesses up, but just by looking around the table and seeing Stiles’ shoulders shake from juvenile laughter is all she needs to answer her question. She narrows her eyes at him before picking up one of the cards.

“ _Awkward voice mail_ has it.”

Kira claps excitedly and takes her first Black card in victory while Stiles looks on with an incredulous expression.

"Oh come on!"

He’s ignored while Isaac, as the next Card Czar, draws a new Black card.

“ _Alternative medicine is now embracing the curative powers of blank_ ,” he reads. Once everyone pushes forward their choices, he shuffles them and turns them over, looking at them one at a time. “ _8 oz. of sweet Mexican black-tar heroin_ … _George Clooney’s musk_ … _Isaac’s_ -” He stops abruptly, glaring at Stiles. “Really?”

"What’d I do this time?"

“ _Isaac’s stupid scarves?_ " Isaac angrily holds up one of the blank White cards that has Stiles’ handwriting on it.

"Just because I wrote it doesn’t mean I played it!"

"I’ve had it up to _here_ with you, Stilinski!”

"Yeah, well kiss my-"

"Guys!" Scott intervenes. "Chill out, it’s just a game. Isaac, just pick a card."

Still furious, Isaac grabs one of the cards that says _Alcoholism_ on it and pushes it forward. Staring him down, Stiles reaches out and claims the Black card. Confused, Isaac watches as Allison tentatively reaches out for the blank White card and puts it in her discard pile while avoiding his eyes.

Before the situation can get worse, Derek draws a Black card.

“ _Blank: kid tested, mother approved_.”

Everyone gives him their White card choices. Sighing he begins to read them out.

“ _Gladiatorial combat… Cheating in the Special Olympic… Daddy issues… A flesh-eating bacteria_ …”

When he gets to the next card, his eyes go wide before he slams them closed and groans.

"Gross!"

"What is it?"

"Show us!"

"How can it be worse than flesh-eating bacteria?"

Derek says nothing, just shakes his head and flips over the card that says _The clitoris_. The table erupts in sounds of disgust, Derek holding up the card and looking as if he wishes he could scrub his brain clean. Everyone is shocked when Scott stands up triumphantly, grabbing the Black card and laying out his other claimed points.

"That’s 8! I win, motherfuckers!"

Stiles throws his hand of cards to the table in petulant anger, marching off to the kitchen to drown his defeat in Deaton’s shitty beer.


	32. Specimen 047 pt 3 (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warning: beatings, Stockholm Syndrome  
> Prompt: Continuation of Creepy!Scientist Stiles.

The specimen has injured three of their researchers.

Dr. Harris will be lucky if he makes it through the next few days; too much blood loss, too much damage. The others walk away with deep claw wounds and a bite or two. They’re lucky 047 is a beta, or they too would have been put into the research program.

Something needs to be done about him. His strength is impressive and an asset when it comes to their work, this is true; too many subjects have succumbed to the testing, becoming weak and resigned. At least a handful have bitten off their tongues in their cells. It’s wasteful, really. So much they can learn from even the more frail ones, lost because they couldn’t handle a few rounds of electroshock.

Yes, 047’s continued resistance means he’s remained the healthiest of their subjects, but it also means a reluctance amongst the staff to perform any testing.

Stiles is little more than an assistant in the labs. The most he is expected to do is take notes, mark times, and ensure that the equipment runs smoothly. Eventually, though, there is a call for volunteers to do the more hands-on tests. But Stiles isn’t stupid; he knows the very first time he looks 047 in the eyes that if he were to even get within a certain distance, 047 would rip out his throat. With his teeth.

It’s a bit unorthodox, Stiles understands, but it’s the only route he can think of in order to get 047 to cooperate. He requests the use of one of Argent’s men, the one with the most conduct complaints against him; he’s beaten to death at least one subject.

And then Stiles lets him have an hour with 047 every day, and every day the specimen needs an afternoon to recover from his wounds. It’s a grueling process. For a week at least it goes on, testing suspended for as long as Stiles can manage. He stays out of 047’s sight during those hours, doesn’t let 047 see or hear him until the time is right.

When that time comes, after the specimen is left in a bruised and bloodied heap on the floor, arms restrained above him, Stiles finally walks from behind the two-way mirror and into the lab. 047’s eyes are mostly swollen shut, but he hears the steps. Still healing, he flinches back, teeth gritted together, even with his jaw broken. Very slowly, Stiles kneels down in front of him.

"Derek?" Stiles asks softly.

047 turns his face to him, confused. It’s probably been some time since he’s heard his name rather than his designation. Good.

"Look at what they’ve done to you," Stiles says, reaching out cautiously to touch the side of 047’s face. The specimen flinches once more, expecting a blow, but Stiles just lets his hand mold gently against his black and blue cheekbone, his cool fingers contrasting the painful heat of battered flesh. Seemingly against his will, 047 leans into the caress and sighs.

Stiles smiles. They’re not done yet, but this is definitely a step in the right direction.

"You’ll let me take care of you, won’t you, Derek? You’ll be a good boy for me."


	33. Superfluous Scarves and Sixty Degrees of Stupid Speculation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: references to mutilation, Isaac and Stiles being dicks to each other.  
> Prompt: Stiles with a Glasgow Smile

The heat of their stares is almost as unbearable as the itchy, burning irritation he feels in his torn skin every time he opens his mouth too far.

He really should have listened to his dad. He should have just stayed home until he had the corrective surgery, or at least until the bright redness had faded from his current stitches. But he’s this close to having to repeat junior year because of all the school he’s missed, so here he is. In class. With severing cuts stretching out from the corners of his mouth to where his jaw hinges. 

He’s already made three people sick and one girl pass out. Maybe he should have bought a turtle neck. One of the wide ones he could have stretched over the lower half of his face.

At the very least it would have people calling him a wannabe ninja instead of…

Instead of what they have been saying. Scott’s already been sent to the office for punching out a guy from the lacrosse team for suggesting that they should have done the world a favor and sewn Stiles’ mouth shut along with the rest.

Stiles appreciates the gesture. If it turns out Scott broke the guy’s nose, Stiles will have to treat him to burgers after school. Assuming he’s not asked to go home early and stop freaking everyone out. Lydia had offered to use the full extent of her cosmetic prowess to at least tone down the angry reddening of his torn skin, but Stiles had to pass. All the nervous sweating he’s doing would just cause any makeup to run into the punctured holes of the stitching and that sounds like a clean-up nightmare. Not to mention a source of infection, something he’s been fighting since Day One.

He tries not to think about Day One, because on Day One he didn’t even have the stitches to hold him together.

But every time Finstock not-so-subtly glances at him and stumbles in his lecture, every time Stiles looks over at Scott’s empty desk and sees a multitude of eyes on him - every time he subconsciously raises a hand to worry at the rough lines of healing flesh, he really kind of wishes they would send him home. 

Behind him he feels a tap on his shoulder. Cautiously, slowly, he turns his head only to have a bundle of fabric shoved under his nose. He grips the fabric to pull it away and gives Isaac a glare.

"What?" he whispers testily.

"Wear it," Isaac tells him. Stiles irritably shoves it back at him.

"It’s still over sixty degrees outside. I don’t want to wear your stupid scarf."

"I don’t want to look at your stupid face."

And it’s said in such a nonchalant manner, so calmly and uncaring that Stiles can’t help but feel ridiculously grateful when shocked eyes turn from him onto Isaac for his _unsympathetic_ behavior. Isaac ignores them, continuing to look at the board, chin in hand and eyes glazed over in boredom.

When Stiles turns to face the front of the room, he wraps the scarf around his mouth a couple of times. It isn’t all that comfortable; it makes him feel confined and the threads sometimes catch on his stitching, pulling a bit and making his skin itch even more. But slowly, one by one, he feels the stares fall away from him.

Slowly, it gets easier to breathe.

"Try not to bleed on it."

"You can’t see, but I’m licking the inside of it."

"You’re such a dick."

“ _All_ _over_ the inside.”


	34. Dreaming of DC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: (none)  
> Prompt: Erica and Stiles bitching about comics and DC

"I can’t believe you approve of this," Erica says as she flips through the issue. Stiles rolls his eyes as he walks down the wall of the comic book shop.

"I never said I approved of it; I said I don’t care one way or the other."

"But blue was such a better color for him! Nightwing has to be black and blue, not black and red."

"I’m sorry, are we suddenly talking about your weird fanfiction fetishes or…?" Stiles trails off as he picks up an issue of Green Lantern. He snorts when the guy that’s been trailing Erica like a lovestruck idiot walks into a display stand when she bends over to put Nightwing back on the shelf.

"You were probably one of those jerks who was happy about Stephanie and Cassandra getting the axe for the reboot," Erica snipes playfully. Stiles gives her his best disgusted look.

"How _dare_ you, Reyes. I’ll have you know that that is a mark of slander against my character and I will not stand for it,” he tells her, walking over to the figure merchandise shelves.

"If you actually buy the Star Sapphire Wonder Woman, I will punch you in the face."

"Come on, Catwoman, she’s blowing me kisses. She needs me to take her home."

"She shouldn’t _need_ you to do anything, that’s the point.”

Erica goes to slap him upside the head but all Stiles feels is his special pillow underneath it. He takes a disoriented minute to stare up at his ceiling, blinking rapidly when tears begin to distort his vision.

It wasn’t a memory. He and Erica were never friends, they never went comic book shopping together.

He only sometimes wishes that they had.

Four nights, four dreams of events that never happened, conversations with people he never had. Hockey with Boyd, going to the movies with Heather, talking to Miss Tara about how worried he is about his grades this year.

Arguing over superhero costumes with Erica.

He takes a slow, deep breath and shakily exhales, turning over to face his wall and clutch his pillow tight, wondering if Erica really would have been a fan of Nightwing. Probably. Maybe.

He hopes so.


	35. I'm The Alpha Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: (none)  
> Prompt: Stiles has to go to summer school because of all the school he missed post 3b. Derek happens to be teaching.

Isaac Lahey is a dirty rotten cheat, and Stiles would like Scott to acknowledge it with a cake that says “You told me so; I’m sorry.” Preferably red velvet, but he’s willing to settle for marble.

Scott tells him to stop being insensitive about it.

 

Which, okay sure. That’s a fair point when it comes to Scott and Mr. Argent, who both loved Allison dearly. But damnit, there’s just something about Isaac that really rubs him the wrong way. 

Like how he’s stuck with summer school and Isaac gets to go to France with Mr. Argent for a few months. Yeah, that’s fair. It’s not like they _both_ missed a ridiculous amount of classes or anything. Nope. It’s just Stiles stuck with the delinquents, the slackers, and poor Jenny Malone who had  mononucleosis for the last part of the year. _  
_

She keeps throwing him suggestive looks in the halls, but he isn’t putting his mouth anywhere near that until he sees a doctor’s note.

It’s only the first day and he already wants to throw himself off the gymnasium roof. Regular school is boring enough on a normal day, but summer school is almost unbearable. He can already tell he’s going to have to save his Adderall on the weekends just to make up for what he’ll need to take to stay focused during the week. He’s asked more than once if there’s a test he can just study for and take to get out of this, but he’s told that’s not how it works. Dicks. The only upside he can see is that there are fewer classes during the day, and he walks into his last one with an eager pep.

He comes to a complete halt in the doorway, tripping when two other students run into him from behind. They grumble and push him aside, but he doesn’t pay attention to them. How can he when there’s a werewolf in a button-up raising an eyebrow at him before turning back to the blackboard to finish writing. 

"Derek?" Stiles whispers out through his teeth, stiffly walking over to him. "What are you doing here? Did something happen? Is someone dying?" Derek just steps back and points to the board. Stiles blinks at it. "What?"

"For the next few weeks, you can call me Mr. Hale," Derek tells him in an authoritative voice. Stiles doesn’t stop the unbecoming snort when he laughs, but does get a little nervous when Derek doesn’t drop his serious business face. 

"Wait. Are you kidding me? You’re teaching this class? How?" 

"It’s American Lit. I happen to have a degree in American Lit. Your father’s a cop, I’m sure you know how to draw conclusions," Derek deadpans. There are a few snickers from the classroom, and Stiles realizes that, oh yeah, there are other people here. 

"I don’t want you teaching me anything," Stiles whispers harshly, flushing under the stares of his peers. Derek’s face does something weird for a split second before he shrugs and points to a seat on the front row. 

"Sit down, Stiles. Class started two minutes ago."

Stiles stands there defiantly for another ten seconds before Derek straightens up threateningly from where he was leaned against the blackboard and Stiles makes a quick retreat to the desk.

-

"You need to stop doing this."

Stiles looks up from his lunch, his mouth full of chips. 

"S’op don’ wha?" 

Derek sits down at the table across from him, straightening his tie (tie, he wears fucking ties to work, jesus) as he sits down. 

"You need to stop talking back to me in class," he says, voice lowered as a group walks by them. Stiles wipes his fingers off on his jeans and smirks.  


"But that would change our whole dynamic. You say something, I criticize, you threaten, I get sarcastic. That’s our thing. It always has been."

"Well it can’t be _here_ ,” Derek stresses. With a frustrated sigh, he continues. “I don’t care if you disagree with something I say. Sometimes it can make for a good discussion. But when you get blatantly disrespectful _as if it’s normal_ , then the other students think they can get away with it too.” Derek jerks his head subtly to the side to indicate a table of loud mouths a few yards away.

"So you… want me to help set an example?" Stiles asks slowly. It would make sense. As a teacher it’s not like Derek can push a student’s head into something just to get them to listen. Derek nods and points to him.

"You are the leader of the pack here. They get their cues from you. I’m telling you to-" Derek winces. "I’m _asking_ you to help me out here. This is my first time teaching in a classroom. If I can’t control the class, I can’t teach.” 

Stiles abandons his lunch entirely. Derek Hale is asking _him_ for help controlling an unruly pack. Miraculous. 

"Okay," Stiles says, crossing his arms. Derek blinks at him. 

"Okay…" he repeats. 

"Sure thing. I can be a good little student. I just have a couple of conditions."

"Of course you do," Derek groans, swiping a hand over his face.

"First, I want to be exempt from the paper for _Gatsby_ ,” Stiles says.

"Absolutely not. Your paper is due tomorrow, Stiles. I expect five pages on my desk."

"Of what, exactly? What hasn’t already been said about this damn book? Nothing. Nothing new has been said. Nothing new can be said. I refuse," Stiles tells him. Derek heaves a reluctant sigh.

"Fine, but you still need to do the discussion. What else, if you’re not finished with your illegal extortion." 

"You have to say that I’m the alpha now."

"We’re done here."

"I will be telling Scott about this!"


	36. Parrish the Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: (none)  
> Prompt: Post-Nogitsune with the Sheriff putting Parrish on Stiles duty.

"This is a gross misuse of department resources."

"Stiles, we’re done talking about this. Deputy Parrish will be taking you to and from school," the Sheriff says wearily.

"For how long?" Stiles asks incredulously.

"For as long as I see fit!"

"I don’t need a babysitter!"

"Stiles, I know I look great for my age, but even I didn’t know I could pass for a sixteen year old girl," Deputy Parrish speaks up, hoping a little self-deprecating humor could defuse the situation. Both Stilinskis cast him identical mildly annoyed looks, but Parrish just smiles at them. It’s worth it because the fight seems to have fizzled out of Stiles by now and the Sheriff is already walking back into his office.

"Do not give him any trouble," the man warns his son one last time. Stiles just readjusts his backpack irritably and turns to Parrish.

"Well? Homeroom’s in ten minutes. Hit the siren, we gotta go."

-

"Oh my god, your dad was serious?"

Parrish tries not to smirk as he pulls up to the school with the window already rolled down. Stiles and his friend Scott are standing at the curb as the school lets out, a few kids here and there stopping to see why a police cruiser was on school grounds. 

"Afternoon," he tells them. Scott politely waves at him, but Stiles just rolls his eyes, wrenching the door open and throwing in his bag. Turning back to Scott, he whispers something before climbing into the cruiser with a huff and Parrish wheels them out of the parking lot.

"So, how was class?" Parrish asks after a couple of minutes of awkward silence. Stiles ignores him in favor of texting someone. Tapping his thumb against the steering wheel, Parrish tries again. "I didn’t have a car in high school just a few years back, so I always had to wait for my aunt to pick me up. It was really embarrassing-"

"We get it," Stiles finally says in frustration. "You’re young. Good for you. Keep up with the moisturizer routine, you’ll be the awkwardly youthful deputy well into your forties." Parrish frowns.

"Look, I know this is the last thing you wanted, but your dad is just worried about you, okay? Why don’t you help him out a little and just accept the chaperoning for a few days?" He knows it’s a dirty trick to play on family, but Stiles looks adequately ashamed. Enough at least that he doesn’t make any more sarcastic comments on the way to the Stilinski home. 

-

Parrish can’t decide if the morning pick ups are worse or better than the afternoons. Most of the time Stiles is a whirlwind of activity; Parrish is pretty sure he was never this awake before noon when he was a teenager. Hell, he still needs at least a second coffee to be able to make it to the office fully coherent.

He’s understandably surprised when he sits in the driveway for more than five minutes before Stiles shuffles out of the house slowly, hair a mess and bags under his eyes.

"Did you not sleep well?" Parrish asks as he pulls out onto the street. Stiles says nothing, leaning his head against the glass and closing his eyes, seemingly intent on getting at least five more minutes of sleep before getting to school.

If Parrish intentionally takes a detour adding on another five minutes, well that’s fine. They always get there ridiculously early anyway and Stiles isn’t awake to call him on it.

-

It’s been three days and Stiles has yet to regain whatever insanity is was that had him so springy so early in the morning. If anything, he’s starting to look worse. He’s a zombie in the morning and a POW after school, hollow eyed and exhausted. Parrish sees his friend Scott give him worried looks when they leave.

"You know, melatonin is a good sleep aid," he says to Stiles one day after school. "We can swing by the store if you want to pick some up-"

"I just want to go home," Stiles says, cutting him off. Parrish frowns but keeps on the route to the Stilinski house.

"Is it insomnia?" he asks. Stiles doesn’t answer him for a long time, and Parrish is convinced that they’re going to have yet another silent car ride.

"I don’t have trouble going to sleep," Stiles says suddenly. "I have trouble staying asleep." Parrish looks over to him in surprise.

"You mean like nightmares?" he asks. Stiles shrugs.

"Yeah, something like that."

-

Pulling into the Sheriff’s driveway, Parrish is reluctant to leave Stiles on his own. The kid is sleep deprived and uncoordinated, banging his elbow on the side of the cruiser door and almost forgetting his backpack - who knows how else he could end up accidentally hurting himself once he’s inside. How many injuries happen a year within the household again? And it is Parrish’s job to protect and serve…

He’s finished rationalizing getting out of the car right when Stiles finally gets the front door unlocked. Blearily, Stiles looks back to him and raises an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Don’t mind me, just want to check if your dad has this one case file here," Parrish lies. His dishonesty must show on his face, because Stiles’ expression becomes guarded and suspicious.

"He took them all to work with him this morning," Stiles says slowly.

"Oh- well, uh. Yeah, but there’s one in particular he was looking for a couple hours ago, thought he might have left it at home," Parrish says, consciously keeping his eyes from darting around. It doesn’t work, because Stiles suddenly pulls the door closed and stands in front of it.

"Your baby sitting duties are over for today, you know. You can leave. If my dad wants something, he can come get it himself," he says in a harsh tone.

"Your dad’s trusted me to make sure you’re alright, Stiles," Parrish says. "You don’t seem alright to me." Stiles shifts, lips forming a thin line.

"Look, I’m just gonna do some homework-"

"Ten minutes," Parrish interrupts. "Ten minutes to make sure you’re settled in, then I’ll leave." Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but eventually just throws his hands up and opens the door again in agitation.

Cautiously, Parrish follows him into the house. He’s only been in the Stilinski home a couple of times before, once to consult the Sheriff on a case and again the first time he started driving the man’s son to school. The interior is interesting to say the least. It’s obvious that two men (well, a man and a boy) live here; some of the furniture is half-heartedly dusted, there’s lacrosse and baseball equipment here and there, the kitchen table is littered with the Sheriff’s work and the coffee table in the living room is hardly visible underneath Stiles catch-up homework.

But there are hints here and there of a woman’s touch, preserved in the decor and in photos on the walls.

Stiles drops heavily onto the couch, immediately shuffling through notebook pages filled with notes with ease, as if there’s some sort of ordered chaos at work in the pile on the coffee table. Parrish rounds the couch slowly, approaching as if he expects Stiles to lash out again at any moment. When the kid pulls his legs up onto the couch and places a textbook in his lap, Parrish figures it’s alright to sit down. Stiles doesn’t turn on the television and Parrish isn’t about to do it himself and disrupt his studying. Instead they sit in silence.

The awkward tension in the air is enough to make him jittery.

To occupy himself, Parrish reaches for one of the textbooks near the edge of the table. When Stiles doesn’t stop him, he pulls it into his own lap and starts reading.

Except almost everything is in Latin.

Checking the cover, Parrish sees that it is indeed a textbook for level one Latin. He wasn’t aware that that was even a language option at Beacon Hills High School. With the question in his mouth, he turns to ask Stiles about it, but stops short.

Stiles’ head hangs forward; his hand has stopped taking more notes and his breathing has evened out. Parrish can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips and he reaches out to pull the book out of Stiles’ lap. One slow pull and Stiles body tips sideways, landing gently against Parrish’s arm. Parrish immediately stills, breaking out into a cold sweat. The kid is asleep and one wrong move could wake him up, and that’s the last thing anyone wants. Ten minutes, he thinks. Ten minutes and he’ll go.

Just ten minutes.

-

He’s jerked awake by the static of the radio on his shoulder. Dispatch is asking for his location, and a glance to the clock on the wall says ten minutes somehow became forty-five.

Stiles is still dead asleep against him.

As quietly as possible, he checks in. It’s not quiet enough, because Stiles shifts against him, pushing his face more into Parrish’s shoulder. It takes some maneuvering, but Parrish manages to get Stiles laid out lengthwise on the couch. He awkwardly straightens his uniform and tries quell the flush he feels on his face. He should get back to the station.

Where he’ll do his best not to look guilty in the Sheriff’s presence.


	37. A Queen and Her Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: sexiness between the ladies  
> Prompt: Allydia + Cinderella

"Isn’t your shoe rack full already? These are really cute and all, but…"

"Allison, one day you’ll learn that a girl can never let the past keep her from the future," Lydia says, plucking a pair of barely-used heels from her collection of footwear and dropping them into a storage bin near her closet labeled _TO THE ILL-FASHIONED_.

Allison rolls her eyes fondly as she drops the Macy’s sack on the floor next to the bed. She walks over the bin and picks up the heels, turning them over and lamenting her footsize. Lydia’s feet aren’t that much smaller than hers, just enough for sharing shoes to be a definite discomfort. It’s a shame really, she thinks as she eyes some of Lydia’s strap sandals with envy.

"My back is _killing_ me,” Lydia sighs as she rests back on the bedspread, her legs hanging over the edge.

"You should have sat down at the food court," Allison tells her, setting the heels back into the bin.

"Ew, Allison, please. Do you know how unsanitary that is? There was an article published just last year in the _Scientific Journal of_ -“

"Okay, okay, I get it," Allison says, hands up passively. Lydia pouts before giving her friend a thoughtful once-over. Allison automatically looks down to check her blouse and jeans. Seeing nothing out of place she looks back up to Lydia who now has a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Well, good," Lydia says, letting her foot kick lightly at the sack on the floor. "Then you wouldn’t mind helping me put on my new lovelies, right?" Allison gives her a look.

"Sorry, when did I become the queen’s handmaiden?" she asks, humor tinging her voice.

"Handmaiden? Hardly," Lydia scoffs.

There’s something about the sincere, _factual_ way Lydia says that word that makes Allison’s breath catch. Something that moves her to kneel in front of the bed and reach for the box inside of the sack. She pulls out the white, lace-overlaid flats, running a finger around the rim of them. With her heart in her throat, she glances up to Lydia who has lifted herself onto her hands to watch.

"More like my knight," Lydia says above her.

Swallowing, Allison tries to ignore the way Lydia’s dress lays on her thighs, ridden up from her leisurely position on the bed, as she takes Lydia’s bare foot into her hand. She slips the shoe on easily, letting her thumb softly graze her friend’s ankle. She moves to pick up the other shoe when Lydia’s leg suddenly drapes itself over her shoulder and draws her in. Allison almost topples face first into Lydia’s lap, just barely catching herself with her hands on the bed. Briefly stunned, Allison actually turns her face into the smooth inside of Lydia’s thigh, her lips caressing the warm skin there.

"You see?" Lydia asks breathlessly, the lazy smirk bringing a sinful edge to her face. "Perfect fit."


	38. Pancakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Derek can't decide between food or morning sex  
> Prompt: Domestic sterek + breakfast

Pancakes.

It’s the first thought in Derek’s head when he wakes up with his arms full of a sleeping body and his nose buried in Stiles’ hair. The rumbling in his stomach agrees with the idea, but the rest of him is perfectly content to just lie there and listen to Stiles’ occasional snore and the unwavering beat of his heart.

Unlike last night, when Derek was sure that Stiles’ heart would give out along with his body. Any marks that Stiles left on his own are gone now, but Derek runs his fingers over sheet covered skin that he knows is dark red in places where his mouth has been. He’s actually secretly appreciative of the comical amount of porn Stiles has probably seen because there is never a dull moment. Unsuccessful, cramp inducing moments from time to time, but never dull.

Derek won’t admit it, but he’s always a little eager to see what Stiles comes up with on nights when there’s nothing out to kill them and the Sheriff thinks his son is at the McCall’s. He’s hard pressed to remember a time when sex was this ridiculous or even half as _fun_. For every misadventure there’s at least two breakthroughs, something they find that’s worth doing again. And again. And again. With blindfolds. Stiles is nothing if not imaginative and enthusiastic, and Derek sometimes can’t help but catch that zeal and ride it out willingly.

And best of all, there’s no dark corner of his mind telling Derek that something is about to give. He knows Stiles; sarcastic, excitable, and just a little bit evil sometimes, but smart, dedicated, and _loyal_. The kid has no ulterior motives - it’s rarely his style. And if the past couple of years has taught him anything it’s that Stiles can take care of himself. He never fails to get into some kind of trouble, sure, but somehow he always ends up on the other side of it, a little bruised and a little banged up, but fully intact and with quite a few sharp words on his tongue.

Derek runs his hand up the flat plane of Stiles’ stomach and find that he wants to run his own tongue along the developing muscles there, starting from Stiles’ hip and ending at his indecent mouth. There’s a loud rumbling again and Derek’s afraid that breakfast may have to come before morning sex this time.

Pancakes, sex. Pancakes, sex. Pancakes? Sex…

Derek is actually about to fall back to sleep as he weighs his options, but then Stiles’ heartbeat quickens ever so slightly and he yawns awake.

"I need bacon," he mumbles into the pillow.

"Pancakes," Derek argues into the back of Stiles’ head.

"Bacon," Stiles says again. "Protein."

Derek slowly runs his hands down Stiles’ lean body again, massaging areas that he know must be sore, and concedes that their workout last night may call for additional refueling.

"Bacon and pancakes?" he asks.

"Bacon _in_ pancakes,” Stiles drawls out in a voice still heavy with sleep, ending in a moan that nearly tips the scales in Derek’s mind to favor sex.

But bacon pancakes actually sound really fucking good. Bacon pancakes, and then morning sex. In the kitchen. On the table.

Derek only spares a brief moment as he drags himself out of bed to wonder if he’s gotten to be just as bad as Stiles. He certainly hopes so.


	39. Open Wide (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: non-con fellatio, gunplay, male OC in place of the dude holding a gun to Stiles head in the promo  
> Prompt: Request for gunplay after the promo came out

"Where is Scott McCall?"

Stiles doesn’t say anything. Unusual, yes, but so is the gun held directly between his eyes. It’s taking all of his control to just hold still, as if one wrong move would result in a bullet in and out of his sinus cavity.

"Where. Is Scott McCall," the man asks again.

"Have you checked the phone book?" Stiles asks without moving his jaw too much, tremors running through his arms and legs. When his face isn’t immediately blown off, he lets his held breath out slowly. It’s too dark in here to see the man’s face clearly, but Stiles can see his eyes. They’re very obviously unamused.

Up until the point that they are.

Suddenly the silencer drags from Stiles’ forehead down the center of his face before resting on his bottom lip. Stiles pulls back minutely, but the man pushes the gun forward, the barrel clacking soundly against his teeth.

"Hey-"

His protest is cut short when the silencer is forced into his open mouth. Stiles stumbles back, gagging when the gun hits the back of his throat. A gloved hand grips his shoulder and pushes him down to his knees. The gun slips out of his mouth and he coughs violently. The hand moves from his shoulder to his hair, gripping it and pulling back. Stiles’ head is craned up and the gun is forced between his lips again.

"If you don’t want to use that mouth for talking, I’m sure we can find something else for it to do," the man says. He shoves the silencer further into Stiles mouth again causing him to choke, but the hand in his hair keeps him from rearing back. "Suck."

Stiles swallows around the barrel and the saliva collecting in his mouth and tries to keep the panic attack creeping up his spine at bay. This guy can’t be serious, this can’t be happening. It isn’t, this has to be a- He chokes again when the gun hits the back of his throat once more. Tears begin to prickle at the sides of his eyes as he lets his tongue move. The man chuckles darkly and begins to slide the gun in and out of Stiles’ mouth slowly.

With every push and pull, more saliva falls down Stiles chin. Or that could be the tears. He doesn’t know, because it’s gotten hard to breathe between the freaking weapon attacking his throat and hiccuping sobs wracking his body.

"Easy," the man says, pulling the gun out to trace the silencer over Stiles’ lips. "I have a very sensitive trigger finger. You should treat my girl here a little nicer." Stiles’ reprieve suddenly ends as the gun is forced back into his mouth, metal and oil staining his tongue. His teeth clamp down on it against his will and his hair is pulled sharply. "Ah ah. Be nice. This won’t stop unless you’re nice."

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and puts his lips between his teeth and the gun, moving up and down the silencer hesitantly.

"That’s it. Now was that so hard, you mouthy little bastard?"

Stiles tries not to listen. If it gives Scott more time, if it _keeps Scott safe_ , he’ll endure. He has to. Even as the gun slips in and out of his mouth, even as the hand in his hair begins to pet him in a mock of act of comfort and his vision begins to tunnel. Even when the gun is pulled from his mouth and wetly dragged down his neck to his collarbone and the man thumbs his bottom lip, leather and blood exploding on the tip of his tongue.

Nevertheless, he feels his resolve waver sharply when the hand leaves his face to pull at the man’s belt.

"That’s enough with the foreplay, I think. Let’s see if that mouth can open wider."


	40. Do You Like Me? Y/N

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: Spoilers for 4x01 The Dark Moon  
> Prompt: Roscoe the Jeep + Stiles + bb!Derek

"Do you not like me or something?"

Stiles glares into the mess that is the Jeep’s engine and tries not to shove his entire head into the machinery. They’ve gotten 100 miles and gathered 99 more problems, a majority of which involve a vehicle that wasn’t cut out for cross county travel in the 80s, let alone now. The rest have taken shape in the form an amnesiac, de-aged werewolf.

It’s just been that kind of year.

"What?" Stiles asks around the flashlight in his mouth, distracted. There’s tube running from the Do-Hicky to the Thing-a-Mabob and there’s not exactly a helpful sticker or anything that labels it important. Might as well take it out for now just to get it out of his way.

"Why don’t you like me?" Mini-Derek asks again. Still not fully registering the question, Stiles turns to him and blinks owlishly. The flashlight shines right into Mini-Derek’s eyes, causing them to show off their reflective properties before the kid squeezes his eyes shut and reaches out to take the thing out of his mouth. "You guys are my friends, right?"

"Uh, yeah?" They are all south of the boarder, risking their lives to bring him back to California. Because Derek is their friend. And for the mafia-esque meet-n-greet. To be honest, that’s why Stiles is here, that and the sheer amount of law breaking. He’s going to make an interesting cop one day, he can feel it.

"Then why are you a jerk to me?" Mini-Derek asks, holding the light right where Stiles needs it.

"Excuse you," Stiles says, wrenching loose a couple more bolts. "I’m a jerk period. You’re not special." Jeez, just because he got a little snarky with kid earlier, suddenly he’s an asshole. The Derek he knows has tougher skin. He can practically hear Mini-Derek frowning. Stiles rolls his eyes. "You’re the one who doesn’t like me, dude."

"Why?"

"Beats the hell out of me. I’ve saved your ass enough times that you’d think you’d appreciate my company a little more," Stiles says, pulling out the Whatsitcalled.

"You are pretty funny," Mini-Derek agrees and Stiles nearly drops the hunk of metal on his foot. He stares at Mini-Derek incredulously, and the kid just grins back at him. Grins, like it doesn’t hurt his face to do anything but glare murder at people. The smile turns a little sly when he says, "Or, you know, just pretty."

The Whatsitcalled doesn’t crush his foot, but it’s a near thing.

Smug look still in place, Mini-Derek hands him the flashlight, picks up the part, and starts messing with the inside of the Jeep. Stiles watches dumbfounded, shaking his head when it looks like Mini-Derek knows exactly what he’s doing.

"Why didn’t you just take over an hour ago?" he asks irritably. Mini-Derek ignores him.

"If I fix this rust bucket, will you like me?" He reconnects the tube between the Do-Hicky and the Thing-a-Mabob.

"Not if you keep insulting my pride and joy, you little shit."

"If you love this thing so much, you should learn to do more than just put gas in it," Mini-Derek tells him, screwing something in. Stiles makes a face, because there’s the dick-wolf he remembers. After a few more seemingly random alterations, Mini-Derek shuts the bonnet of the Jeep and holds out his hand. Stiles glares at him, unimpressed as he pulls out his keys and pushes passed him. Sitting in the Jeep, he prays to the automotive pantheon before turning the key. Without stutter or flaw, the engine turns and purrs to life.

"Oh baby!" Stiles throws himself over his steering wheel and runs his hand along the dash in reverence. "That’s daddy’s good girl. I knew you wouldn’t let me down." There’s an interrupting cough to his left and when he sits up, Mini-Derek is there in the open driver-side door with his stupid smug smile that seems to light up his whole freaking baby face.

"So, do you like me now?" he asks. Stiles rolls his eyes again and turns in his seat. 

"You’ve got bigger problems right now than me liking you. What’s the big deal?"

Then Mini-Derek stretches up to kiss him, a dry, chaste yet insistent press of lips onto his that ends in an obnoxiously loud smacking noise when the kid pulls away with a look that says he’s entirely too pleased with himself.

"You like me," he says with a ridiculous amount of confidence, walking back to the motel where the rest of the pack is holed up. Stiles watches him, mouth agape, for a solid few seconds before blushing to his hair and frowning.

"You’re not half as cute as you think you are, you brat!"

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Up in the Woods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3339821) by [Halrine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halrine/pseuds/Halrine)




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